Egan,  Pierce 

Visions  of  Life. 


PS 

3509 

.G36 

V575 

1922 


DUKE 
UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


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mm 


i 


P1SIONS  OF  LIFE 

Bl]  PIERCE  EQAN 


Copyrighted  1922 
By  Pierce  Egan 


Printed 
Louelartd  Reporter-Herald 
Loueland,  Colorado 


TO  MY  WIFE 


(rod  brought  into  this  world  a  boy  I  know, 

And  planted  song  and  story  in  his  heart. 
Then  filled  his  yonnger  days  with  trials  and  woe,. 

Amid  the  cruel  city's  teeming  mart- 
For  he,  who  sings  a  song  that  cheers  the  world, 

Must  do  it  from  a  soul  that's  tasted  pain — 
Lest  how  is  one  to  know  when  victory's  hurled 

The  clouds  aside,  and  sunshine  comes  again. 

Gk»d  know  this  bard  alone  would  never  win, 

Unless  he  made  for  him  a  counterpart; 
He  knows  that  boys  so  easily  drift  in  sin, 

Unless  He  touches  deeply  of  their  heart. 
So  He  brought  a  little  flower  into  this  life, 

Witli  an  angel  tint  of  beauty  on  her  cheek. 
He  knew  when  sorrow  touched  us  in  the  strife, 

An  earthly  guide  from  Heaven,  we  would  seek. 

And  thus,  throughout  the  struggles  of  the  years, 
The  clouds  hung  low,  the  sun  had  gone  away. 

We  saw  a  maiden  brush  away  her  tears, 

And  come  to  us  when  life  had  turned  to  gray. 

She  did  not  pause  to  see  if  we  could  give 
To  her  the  worldly  goods  her  sisters  had; 

She  knew  that  love,  forever  true,  would  live; 

.    She  heard  the  songs  of  life,  forever  glad. 

She  lifted  us  amid  the  realm  of  dreams, 

And  showed  us  all  the  beauty,  and  the  charm, 
There  is  for  those  who  paddle  down  life  streams, 

She  shielded  us  from  every  worldly  harm. 
She  always  believed  that  some  day  we  would  win, 

And  from  this  belief  she  never  would  deter- 
If  ever  we  do  rise  above  the  din, 

We'll  know  that  we  owe  everything  to  her. 


GOME,  LITTLE  LAD 


Come,  little  lad  with  your  eyes  of  blue 

And  sit  on  my  knee  a  while 
And  I'll  tell  you  a  story  old — yet  new 

Of  a  world  with  a  tear  and  a  smile 
The  flowers  that  bloom  by  the  side  of  the  road 

Are  made  fresh  by  your  mother's  tears 
Who  builded  your  future  in  dreams  and  hope 

In  the  trials  of  the  bygone  years. 

She  knows  that  the  blossoms  and  songs  of  life 
Are  yours  for  the  seeking — that's  all, 

Yet  the  blade  of  ambition  and  avarice  knife 
Cuts  the  buds  till  they  tremble  and  fall 

She  has  noticed  the  hearts  with  a  craving  for  gold 
Lose  their  lustre  for  things  that  are  true 
And  she  wants  you  to  list  to  the  story  old 
That  your  heart  may  be  ever  new. 

When  forward  you  go  on  life's  broad  field 

Where  the  trails  are  oftimes  dim 
The  well  worn  highways  most  always  yield 

The  dross  of  the  life  — the  skim 
So  follow  the  track  from  the  din  and  noise 

Prom  the  money  mad  world  of  men 
And  open  your  heart  to  the  gentler  poise 

'Mid  the  glow  of  God's  kindlier  glen. 

There  are  flowers  and  birds  on  the  byways  lad 

And  maidens  and  songs  of  love 
They  are  yours  and  their  songs  are  always  glad 

If  you  '11  place  their  rights  above 
The  lure  and  lust  for  the  trash  called  gold 

And  your  mother  knows  how  true 
Are  the  joys  and  the  thrills  of  the  story  old 

When  we  keep  it  ever  new. 


SANTA  AND  THE  STAR 


This  is  a  rhyme  of  the  big  north  star, 

That  hangs  in  the  Northern  sky, 
I  wonder  how  many  boys  and  girls, 
Just  know  exactly  why 
This  great  big  ball  of  fire  hangs, 

And  casts  its  rnddy  glow 
Around  the  pole  of  the  far,  far  north, 

With  its  banks  and  banks  of  snow. 

If  you'll  listen  a  minute,  and  just  sit  still, 

And  don't  even  wink  an  eye — 
And  don't  tell  Santa,  that  I  told  you — 

I'll  tell  you  the  reason  why. 
There  are  hundreds,  and  hundreds  of  Brownie  men, 

So  fat,  and  round  and  sleek, 
And  they  work,  in  this  land  of  eternal  night, 

By  the  day,  the  month  and  the  week. 

All  muffled  up  in  their  furs  they  work, 

Just  making  the  dolls  and  toys 
For  Santa,  to  take  out  to  the  world, 

For  the  little  girls  and  boys. 
They  have,  for  their  house,  great  banks  of  snow, 

Without  no  roof  at  all; 
And  within  this  room,  this  great  star  shines 

And  lets  its  bright  lights  fall. 

For  good  Old  Santa  steals  away, 

Where  none  from  this  world  can  seek 
Has  toyland  grand  in  this  northern  land, 

And  so  little  folks  can't  peek, 
As  he  fills  his  pack  and  reindeer  sled — 

And  the  star  looks  on  the  while, 
And  casts  its  glow  on  the  house  of  snow, 

As  he  starts  for  home,  with  a  smile. 


TEE  WORLD  IB  GOOD 


A  poet  wrote  in  the  years  long  past, 

Of  the  fellow  who'd  take  his  place, 
When  Gabriel  blew  his  trumpet  blast 

And  he'd  finished  his  worldly  race. 
Sometimes  in  a  dreamy  mood, 

I  go  back  to  things  that  were; 
And  figure  that  none  will  take  my  hood 

In  the  course  of  a  world  transfer. 

I've  worn  the  armor  in  miany  a  clime; 

It  has  gone  through  many  a  fight, 
And  never  yet  have  I  seen  the  time 

When  it  fit  exactly  right. 
And  yet,  I  love  the  dear  old  thing — 

'Twas  the  only  one  I  had; 
It  doesnU  just  exactly  ring 

All  true,  yet,  'taint  all  bad. 

It  seem,s  as  though  some  other  chap 

Would  have  an  awful  time 
Wearing  my  frayed  and  frazzled  cap 

In  any  land  or  clime, 
Because  there 's  never  two  who  think 

Exactly  just  the  same — 
And  my  old  garb 's  a  missing  link, 

In  the  course  of  life's  grim  game, 

Yet  I  wouldn 't  know  just  what  to  do, 

If  nature  changed  its  plan, 
And  gave  to  me  a  mantle  new, 

For  a  different  kind  of  man. 
I'm  absolutely  satisfied 

With  this  battered  garb,  I  see — 
And  even  though  sometimes  I've  cried, 

This  world's  been  good  to  me. 


THE  HUMP TY  MAN, 


Did  you  hear  the  roaring,  purring  noise 

Up  in  the  sky  last  night; 
Perhaps  that  you  were  fast  asleep, 

When  that  big  plane  hove  in  sight! 
It  looked  just  like  a  great  big  bird, 

A  floating  through  the  air; 
With  its  hundred  lights  a  sparkling, 

Throwing  out  their  dazzling  glare. 

The  funniest  looking  Humpty  Man, 

Was  seated  at  the  wheel, 
As  the  great  ship  hovered  o'er  the  town-. 

And  it  now  and  then  would  reel, 
First  up,  then  down,  then  roundabout, 

As  on,  and  on,  it  ran. 
Two  beady  eyes  looked  down  and  smiled— 

This  funny  Humpty  Man. 

He  didn't  care  if  doors  were  shut, 

Or  curtains  all  pulled  down- 
He  could  see  right  into  every  house. 

Of  this  great  big,  sleepy  town. 
He  knew  what  every  boy  and  girl 

Was  dreaming  of  last  night; 
And  he  figured  out  their  Christmas  toys 

Before  he  skimmed  from  sight. 

This  funny,  little  Humpty  Man, 

He  doesn't  care  a  snitch 
Whether  the  boys  and  girls  are  poor, 

Or  whether  they  are  rich. 
As  long  as  their  hearts  are  clean  and  bright 

He  loves  them  all,  because— 
Eiches  doesn't  count  with  him — 

This  kind  old  Santa  Glaus. 


LITTLE  BROWN  EYES 


It  was  only  just  a  few  short  years  ago 

That  I  held  you,   "Little  Brown  Eyes,"  on  my 
knee! 

Today,  your  cheek  reflects  the  beauteous  glow 
Of  womanhood,  and  yet,  you  know,  to  me 

You  ?re  just  the  same  sweet,  happy,  carefree  child 
You've  grown  in  beauty,  yet  your  heart's  the 
same, 

As  when  you  scampered  gaily  through  the  wild — 
And  you  take  me  back  to  all  these  joys  again, 

I  saw  you  grow,  and  ripen  through  the  years, 

And  when  the  world  had  touched  me  with  its  woe, 
I  saw  you  try  to  hide  the  moistening  tears, 

And  cheer  me  with  your  words,  'twas  better  so. 
For,  'twas  then  I  knew,  that  come  what  ever  would, 

No  clouds  could  ever  hide  the  light  from  me. 
Your  inspirations,  harbinger  of  good, 

Was  all  that  mattered — all  that  I  could  see. 

I  almost  slipped  behind  the  maddening  throng; 

And  once  I  almost  lost  the  things  in  life; 
And  yet,  you  know,  'twas  not  for  very  long, 

Because,  above  the  maddening  din  and  strife 
Two  deep  browfr.  eyes  in  silence,  spoke  to  me, 

And  told  me  battle  on  and  soothed  m!y  pain — 
And  now,  that  I  have  won,  I  still  can  see 

The  one  who  helped  me  up  the  hill  again. 

I  see  you,  as  you  were  just  yesterday, 

When  happy  childhod  sang  into  your  heart. 
I  see  you,  as  you  bloomed  like  flowers  in  May, 

When  girlhood  first  had  claimed  you  as  its  part. 
I  see  you,  in  the  charm  of  woman-grown, 

In  all  your  beauty  and  those  wonderous  eyes — 
I  know  who  ever  claims  you  as  their  own, 

Will  win  the  best  in  God's  most  kindly  prize. 


A  LOVE  SONG 


"When  the  Guardian   Angel  bent    above  your  little 
baby  bed, 

And  the  silver  rays  of  moonbeam,  shown  within, 
I  wonder  if  she  had  in  mind  another  curly  head, 

Of  a  lad  who'd  some  day  strive  your  love  to  win; 
I  wonder  if  the  God  above  who  made  your  wonder - 
ous  eyes. 

Just  made  them  as  a  counterpart  for  mine; 
I  wonder  if  he  knew  that  I  would  win,  this  wonder- 
ous  prize, 

And  claim  you  as  my  little  clinging  vine, 

I  wonder  if  He  made  the  birds  to  sing  for  you  and 
me; 

I  wonder  are  the  stars  for  us  alone, 
The  sparkling  water  of  the  brook,  the  dazzling  waves 
of  sea, 

The  beauteous  colors  on  the  hill  tops  shown — 
Did  He  have  in  mind  your  wondrous  cheek  when  he 
made  the  little  rose; 
Did  He  tint  the  ravin 's  plumage  from  your  hair — 
Does  He  know  that   you're  far  sweeter  than  any 
flower  that  grows — 
That  of  all  life's   beautv   you're   more  passing 
fair! 

Does  He  know  that  when  you're  gone  away  for  only 
just  a  day, 

The  little  birds  don't  warble  half  so  sweet! 
Does  He  know  that  life  for  me  some  how  has  faded 
into  gray — ■ 

That  the  tint  has  left  the  blossoms  at  my  feet! 
Does  He  know  the  murmur's  left  the  rushing  stream'.7 
Does  she   know   the  sparkle's  gone  from  out  the 
dew? 

Does  He  know  the  moon  don't   cast  its  beauteous 
beam, 

Because,  sweetheart,  they're  all  a  part  of  you. 


A  FAIEY  TALE 


Do  you  know  what  makes  the  river  flow; 

What  makes  the  mountains  grand; 
What  makes  the  pretty  flowers  grow. 

And  bloom,  throughout  the  land! 
One  time  a  little  Fairy  loved 

A  charming  Princess  girl; 
He  brought  to  her  the  jewels  fair, 

The  diamond  and  the  pearl. 

And  then,  there  came  a  Fairy  bad, 

As  sometimes  you  will  see, 
And  stole  the  little  girl  away 

To  the  land  of  Used  to  Be. 
The  little  Princess  cried  and  cried, 

Throughout  the  night  and  day, 
And  her  tears  just  made  the  river's  tide, 

That  started  on  its  way. 

It  trickled  onward,  thru  the  world, 

To  make  its  river  bed, 
And  everywhere  it  moved  and  curled, 

A  blossom  raised  its  head, 
And  smiled  to  cheer  this  little  girl, 

And  rest  her  tired  eyes, 
And  then  the  sun  just  cast  its  glow 

And  kissed  them  from  the  skies. 

And  then  the  kind  old  Fairy  king, 

Who  lives  up  in  the  sky, 
Just  whispered  to  the  Princess  fair, 

And  told  her  not  to  cry; 
But  asked  her  just  to  run  away, 

Across  the  open  land — 
Then  he  gave  the  world  an  awful  shake— 

And  made  the  mountains  grand. 


It  popped  the  bad  old  Fairy  Prince, 

Clean  to  the  Mountain  crest, 
And  you  can  hear  and  see  him  yet, 

When  clouds  are  in  the  West. 
He  roars  and  thunders,  in  his  rage, 

And  flashes  lights  about, 
And  though  he 's  getting  gray  with  age,. 

You  still  can  hear  him  shout. 

A  little  Water  Lily  fair, 

Blew  on  the  river  tide, 
And  asked  the  pretty  Fairy  Queen 

To  come  and  have  a  ride. 
80  she  sailed,  and  sailed,  and  sailed  away 

Into  her  land  of  dreams — 
And  she's  the  one  that  makes  for  us 

The  little  starlight  beams. 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME 


I  know  a  place  I  call  fairy  glen, 

In  the  heart  of  a  busy  town, 
In  the  midst  of  the  mart  and  hustle  of  men. 

Is  a  cottage  trimmed  in  brown. 
It  stands  by  the  side  of  a  noisy  street 

'Neath  the  shade  of  an  old  Elm  tree ; 
It  smiles  on  me  with  a  friendly  greets 

For  it 's  home,  sweet  home  to  me. 

The  building  is  sort  of  worn  and  old, 

And  has  stood  the  test  of  years; 
Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold,, 

It  has  known  our  smiles  and  tears. 
It  is  mindful  still  of  the  years  ago, 

When  two  little  baby  eyes 
Looked  sweetly  up  thru  the  firelight  glow, 

To  the  face  of  God's  kindliest  prize. 

And  often  we  think  as  we  sit  again, 

Just  mother  and  I  alone, 
Of  the  earlier  days  in  this  fairy  glen, 

In  the  years  already  flown. 
And  we  see  again  a  baby  smile, 

As  we  dream  of  two  feet  that  stray 
And  we  know  that  life 's  been  well  worth  while, 

In  a  love  that  abides  alway. 

No  wonder  we  love  this  old  fashioned  home, 

In  this  little  old  fashioned  street, 
For  we  know  that  the  day  will  surely  come 

When  the  prattle  of  baby  feet 
Will  resound  again  on  the  well  worn  floor. 

Although  with  a  noiser  strain, 
As  our  baby  boy  comes  through  the  door, 

Of  his  boyhood  home  again. 


IS'o  wonder  we  love  the  old  fashioned  town. 

That  shelters  an  old  fashioned  pair; 
Iso  wonder  we  love  the  cottage  brown, 

With  the  ivy  clinging  there; 
For  it's  here  that  our  dreams  were  given  birtk 

Along  with  two  baby  eyes; 
"Tis  here  we  build*  d  the  treasure  of  earth, 

Where  the  incense  of  memories  arise. 


A  LITTLE  LADY 


The  Master  spread  His  robes  of  plush 
Beneath  the  tinted  sky — 
The  flowers  smiled  their  last  faint  blush. 
As  autumn  drifted  by. 

The  fairies  danced  beneath  the  moon 

To  salvage  nature's  song, 
And  bear  the  rarest  gifts  that  bloom 

To  the  land  where  they  belong. 

To  the  land  where  frosty  winter's  tongue 
Ne'er  touch  the  flowers  that  grow — 

To  the  land  where  hearts  are  ever  young, 
Caressed  with  springtime's  glow. 

They  gathered  buds  of  every  hue, 
'Mid  the  chant  of  love's  sweet  tune 

To  place  them  at  the  feet  anew 
Of  Jove,  where  angels  croon. 

But  the  fairy  wind  paused  in  its  task 
As  it  saw  two  wonderous  eyes" — 

And  could  not  take  the  flowers  that  bask 
For  God's  more  charming  prize. 

So  it  gently  covered  o'er  with  leaves, 
That  springtime  's  smile  may  seek 

The  rose,  which  nature  kindly  weaves 
To  match  your  beauteous  cheek. 


BUMBLE  OF  SUNSHINE 


(The  following  poem  was  written  af- 
ter a  little  girl  called  on  the  author  for 
some  of  his  poems  for  her  sick  mother 
to  read.  Although  living  in  the  most 
dire  poverty,  this  little  girl's  heart 
was  full  of  song.) 

Here's  to  you  lttle  Tootsie, 

With  your  ragged  little  load, 
The  world  has  sort  of  knifed  you 

On  the  first  male  of  your  road. 
You're  a  little  bird  of  paradise 

Without  no  fancy  plume, 
But  you'll  get  there  in  the  finish, 

With  your  merry  little  tune. 
This  world  is  full  of  sympathy, 

And  yet,  we  know  it's  tough 
To  be  clean,  plum  out  of  berries, 

When  the  storm  is  blowin'  rough, 
But  your  little  song  of  gladness, 

Kind  of  sort  of  made  us  know 
The  path  will  get  some  brighter 

The  farther  up  you  go. 

'Tis  hard  to  see  your  playmates, 

With  most  everything  worth  while, 
When  fate  has  kind  of  trimmed  you 

On  that  first  long,  weary  mile; 
But  we 've  had  the  same  sensation, 

And  we  know  you  can 't  go  wrong, 
When  your  soul  is  full  of  gladness, 

And  your  heart  is  full  of  song. 
So  here's  to  you,  little  Tootsie, 

And  your  ragged  little  coat; 
There's  others  who  have  riches, 

But  they  cannot  sing  a  note. 
And  those  who  reach  the  zenith, 

You'll  notice  all  the  while, 
Are  the  ragged  little  urchins, 

With  the  sunny  little  smile. 


SUCCESS 


When  a  iii3.il  lias  reached  his  forties, 

And  his  hair  is  tinning  gray, 
And  he's  bumped  along  the  turnpike 

In  a  rough  and  tumble  way, 

It's  kind  of  nice  to  dream  about 

The  days  of  long  ago 
And  to  weigh  your  own  achievements 

With  the  guy  that  has  the  dough. 

Yes,  it's  kind  of  nice  to  dream  about, 

If  you've  made  your  dreams  come  tine, 
And  money  doesn't  matter 

If  you're  skies  are  always  blue — 
If  the  little  girl  who  knew  you 

In  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Can  smile  the  same  sweet,  winning  smile — 

And  years  ain't  dimmed  its  glow. 

You  may  not  own  no  railroads, 

And  you  may  not  own  no  banks^ 
But  you've  traveled  with  the  army 

And  you  haven't  broken  ranks, 
And  you've  kept  right  on  a  smiling, 

And  a-spreading  miles  of  cheer, 
And  you've  helped  to  make  things  brighter 

For  the  guy  that  's  dropped  a  tear. 

Sometimes  you  might  have  skidded 

On  the  slippery,  sideling  trail, 
But  you  kept  the  old  car  steady 

On  the  road  of  "Must  Not  Fail." 
And  you've  sort  of  kept  your  promise 

To  the  girl  you  used  to  know. 
When  she  was  only  sweet  sixteen, 

And  you  her  bashful  beau. 


KILLARNEY 

(Dedicated  to  my  mother,) 


There's  a  smile  on  the  lakes  of  Killarney7r 

There's  joy  in  the  dream  of  that  land; 
There  was  pride  in  her  wee  bit  of  blarney, 

And  a  thrill  in  the  touch  of  her  hand. 
It  is  years  since  she  told  me  the  story, 

Of  the  Fairies  that  danced  by  the  rill. 
It  is  years  since  she  pictured  the  glory 

Of  the  Shamrock  that  grows  on  the  hill. 

Each  spring,  as  the  flowers  are  blooming 

In  Columbia,  the  land  of  the  free, 
And  nature  has  finished  its  grooming- 

Of  the  blossoms  that's  growing  for  me; 
I  gather  the  choicest  of  flowers, 

With  a  memory  that  ever  is  keen ; 
Then  I  twine  'round  their  beauteous  bowers, 

A  wee  sprig  of  Old  Irish  green. 

And  I  send  to  a  friend,  in  the  city 

Where  the  Statue  of  Liberty  stands, 
With  a  verse  of  an  old  Irish  ditty; 

And  I  ask  that  these  kind,  loving  hands 
Just  place,  as  a  fond  memory  token 

These  buds  on  the  crest  of  a  stone — 
And  she  knows,  though  a  word  is  ne  'er  spoken, 

That  her  boy  has  not  left  her  alone. 

I  was  born  in  this  land  of  glory 

Which  I  love  with  devotion  untold — 
Yet,  I  dream  of  the  land  of  story 

Where  the  Fairies  danced  of  old. 
And  whether  its  struggle  of  years  was  right, 

Is  not  for  me  to  say 
Or  whether  the  victory  won  in  the  fight, 

Will  crown  its  shield  alway. 


But  there's  one  thing  sure  that  comes  to  me, 

It  was  bred  in  my  smiles  and  tears ; 
That  over  that  land  across  the  sea, 

Through  the  long,  long,  weary  years 
There  has  hovered  the  form  of  an  angel  sweet, 

In  the  blue  of  that  Island  air, 
And  guided  aright  my  truant  feet — 

For  my  mother  came  from  there. 


THE  GAMP  FIRE  GIRLS 


-Seek  beauty,  said  the  mother  rose 

To  its  little  daughter  fair, 
(live  service  said  the  tulip,  sweet, 

As  it  bloomed  in  summier  air, 
Knowledge,  wide,  you  must  pursue, 

Said  Mother  Dandelion. 
Be  trusty,  girl,  I  say  to  you, 

Said  charming  Columbine. 
Hold  on  to  health,  quote  Lily's  glow, 

That  your  work  be  glorified. 
Be  happy,  spoke  the  river's  flow, 

That  skirts  the  mountain's  side. 


The  lilting  laughter  of  the  wind 

Spake  to  these  mother  flowers, 
And  said :  My  soft  caress  will  send 

The  little  freshening  showers 
To  keep  the  glow  upon  the  cheek 

Of  nature's  fairest  bloom — 
But  know  you  not,  that  others  seek 

A  place  within  your  room 
Your  Guardian  Angel  knows  how  true, 

Within  your  petal  curls, 
There's  room  for  little  humans  too — 

So  hail  the  Camp  Fire  Girls! 


THE  SUNSHINE  MAS 


There,  little  Cherub,  sit  on  my  knee, 

And  close  your  pretty  eyes, 
And  I'll  tell  of  a  fairy  good  to  me, 

Who  lives  up  in  the  skies- 
His  face  is  round,  and  plump,  the  while. 

And  his  children  ran  and  ran, 
Around  this  world  with  a  cheery  smile — - 

He's  called  the  Sunshine  Man 

His  children  are  litttle  sunbeams, 

And  into  your  room  they  creep, 
And  watch  you,  in  your  morning  dreams? 

When  you  are  fast  asleep. 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 

When  crickets  sing  their  tune, 
He  hides  his  little  beams  from  sight, 

And  sends  the  great  big  moon. 

His  Fairies  guard  your  little  bed, 

Where  fast  asleep  you're  curled; 
While  this  smiling,  Sunshine  Man  has  sped 

To  another  great  big  world; 
And  sings  to  other  boys  and  girls, 

His  happy,  cheery  strain — 
Then  all  at  once,  he  turns  and  whirls 

Right  back  to  you  again. 

Sometimes  when  we  are  naughty, 

And  quarrel  when  at  play, 
He  brings  his  clouds,  so  haughty, 

And  his  smile  just  goes  away. 
He  roars  and  thunders  in  the  sky, 

And  sends  his  great  big  showers— 
Aid  this  Sunshine  Man,  he'll  cry  and  cry, 

For  this  great  big  world  of  ours. 


And  when  he  sees  us  smile  again, 

He  makes  his  blossoms  grow. 
And  the  tears,  and  tears,  he  shed  in  pain. 

Just  make  the  rivers  flow. 
He's  always  happy  when  we  smile, 

And  he'll  help  us  all  he  can, 
If  we  are  cheerful  all  the  while — 

This  great  big  Sunshine  Man- 


THE  FLAPPER  SHOW 


She  has  the  cutest  little  ringlets 

On  her  pretty  little  head, 
Just  trimmed,  and  frizzed,  in  Flapper  style; 

At  least,  that's  what  is  said. 
She's  known  from  Main  to  Mexico, 

And  she  came  in  one  short  day — 
She's  the  charming  Yankee  Flapper 

Of  the  Good  Old  U.  S.  A. 

You  may  criticise  her  manners, 

You  may  criticise  her  dress, 
But  I'll  bet  my  last  red  penny, 

And  I'll  hazard  one  big  guess, 
That  you  wouldn't  care  to  trade  her 

And  her  beaming,  smiling  way, 
For  a  foreign  grown  lassie, 

Outside  the  U.  S.  A. 

It 's  hard  to  be  a  girlie, 

Xo  matter  what  you  wear, 
For  wagging  tongues  will  gossip, 

And  staring  eyes  will  stare; 
But,  listen,  little  maiden, 

No  matter  what  they  say, 
We're  for  the  Yankee  Flapper, 

Of  the  Good  Old  U.  S.  A. 


THE  PASSING  YEARS 


I'm  dreaming  tonight  of  our  yesterdays, 

When  the  skies  were  always  blue, 
And  the  flowers  that  grew  by  the  side  of  the  road 

Just  blossomed  for  me  and  for  you; 
And  I  wonder  if  ever  your  thoughts  go  back 

To  that  little  country  school, 
When  I  shouldered  the  blame  for  a  little  girl 

Who  fractured  the  master's  rule. 

It  is  years  ago  since  that  winter's  sun 

Cast  its  rays  on  the  banks  of  snow, 
When  we  scampered  out  of  that  dingy  room, 

As  the  tiniie  had  come  to  go. 
But  the  passing  years  have  not  dimmed  my  sight 

Of  a  maiden  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Who  waited  behind  the  throng  that  night, 

To  say  that  she  loved  me  true. 

I  know  of  a  man  who  was  beaten  and  whipped, 

In  the  battles  of  after  years, 
And  I  know  of  a  maiden  who  tasted  life's  joy. 

With  none  of  its  sorrow  or  tears; 
But  I  wonder  if  e  'er  in  the  midst  of  her  dreams, 

She  goes  back  to  that  wonderful  day — 
Does  she  know  that  the  laddie  who  shielded  her  then 

Would  act  as  her  guardian  alway? 

They  say  that  the  love  of  a  lad  for  a  maid 

Is  only  the  dream;  of  youth, 
And  will  pass  on  the  wings  of  the  fleeting  years, 

And  yet  the  eternal  truth 
Tli at  was  placed  in  the  heart  of  a  man  I  know 

Has  lived  through  the  smiles  and  tears, 
And  has  lightened  his  burdens  throughout  the  strife 

And  the  flight  of  the  passing  years. 


MY  BOY 

^Dedicated  to  my  two  sons,  Donald  and  Lyle.) 


He's  growing  tall,  and  lanky  and  uncouth, 

He  does  not  always  wash  his  neck  and  ears; 
He's  stepping  out  from  babyhood  to  youth; 

And  I  sort  of  wonder  'bout  the  coming  years. 
He  rouses  all  the  neighbors  with  his  noise, 

And  seems  to  put  a  damper  on  their  joy; 
They  think  he's  worse  than  all  the  other  kids — 

But  I  know  different,  'cause  he's  just  my  boy. 

His  voice  is  changing  and  his  weird  chants 

Most  drive  his  ma  and  me  to  grim  dispair  ; 
He  looks  -o  gawky  like  in  knicker  pants, 

And  skinny  when  he  plasters  down  his  hair. 
Some  times  I  wish  that  he  was  grown  up; 

Then,  when  I  see  a  little  baby  boy, 
When  all  is  still  and  he  is  sound  asleep. 

I  pray  to  Grod  to  spare  my  noisy  boy. 

1  sometimes  shudder  when  I  know  the  game 

Of  life  this  boy  will  yet  be  forced  to  learn. 
Then,  when  I  wish  that  he  had  won  the  fight. 

My  aching  heart  begins  to  yearn  and  yearn, 
And  takes  me  back  to  just  a  few  short  years. 

When  I  watched  the  angel  face  and  radiant  joy 
Of  little  mother  as  she  stroked  the  he-ad 

And  crooned  to  sleep  my  little  prattling  boy. 

I  want  so  much  to  have  him  grow  and  win 

The  fame  I  know  will  surely  be  his  aim, 
But  when  I  know  how  lonely  we  will  be 

When  he  has  gone  to  build  his  house  of  fame. 
1  take  his  little  mother's  hand  in  mine 

And  try  to  tell  her  of  the  pride  and  joy; 
1  see  the  little  moistening  teardrop  start — 

She  knows  how  much  we'll  miss  our  noisy  boy. 


TWO  BOBS 


(Respectfully  inscribed  to  Bob  Etter  and  Bob  Ball 
Publishers  of  the  Loveland  Reporter-Herald,  who 
made  possible  the  publication  of  this  book.) 


There's  a  fellow  they  call  Bob  Etter, 

Another  they  call  Bob  Ball, 
I  know  of  two  no  better 

When  I  start  the  roll  to  call. 
You  know  its  easy  enough  to  sail 

When  you've  climed,  up  to  the  top 
But,  these  two  boys  just  push  the  guy? 

Who  seems  inclined  to  stop. 

Whenever  you  are  downhearted, 

And  feeling  kiin]  of  blue — 
It 's  kind  of  nice  to  have  some  friends 

Who'll  tell  you  honest,  true 
To  keep  -i^ht  on  a  climbing, 

And  throw  dull  care  away, 
It  fashions  all  your  rhyming, 

And  gives  you  pep  to  stay. 

In  fact,  ycu  ne'er  would  see  these  rhymes 

Reflected  in  this  book, 
If  it  hadn't  been,  that  lots  of  times 

When  Old  Man  Gloom  had  took 

Complete  possession,  of  my  soul 
They  both,  were  at  their  jobs 
Just  shoveling  in  some  sunshine  toll — 

My  trusty  friends — two  Bobs- 


COLORADO  WINTER 


When  the  winter  time  hits  Colorado, 

And  the  moon  sort  of  drifts  o'er  the  hills, 
And  the  brisk  winter's  night,  with  its  dazzling  light, 
Casts  its  spell  o'er  the  mountains  and  rills- 
It  is  then  that  this  life  is  the  sweetest, 

As  the  glaciers  form  on  the  crest. 
It  is  then  that  all  nature  is  neatest, 
In  this  moody  big  land  of  the  west. 

For  the  high  mountain  air  is  more  bracing, 

And  the  world  seems  to  rest  for  a  spell- 
Yet  nature  forever  is  tracing 

It's  tints  on  the  peaks  and  the  dell; 
And  the  river  just  pauses  a  second, 

At  least,  to  the  eyes  it  seems, 
But  the  ice  man  has  only  reckoned 

With  the  crest  of  the  mighty  streams* 

The  stream  will  forever  thunder, 

In  spite  of  the  crystal  glow, 
Tearing  the  stillness  asunder 

On  its  way  to  the  vale  below. 
To  us,  who  have  known  the  singing 

Of  the  charming  springtime  call, 
Comes  the  spell  of  the  frost  spirit  ringing — 

Comes  a  dream  that  surpasses  all 

The  mountains  are  moody,  just  like  men, 

Who  dream  in  the  spring  of  life, 
Of  budding  flowers  along  the  glen, 

When  the  air  with  youth  is  rife 
But  the  sweetest  of  dreams  just  come  to  those, 

Who  like  mighty  mountains  stand — 
And  cast  their  charm  in  spite  of  woes, 

On  the  brink  of  the  Promised  Land. 


MY  DAD 


There 's  a  fellow  that  has  the  hul  world  beat, 

And  he's  never  grouchy  or  blue; 
That  is,  when  us  kids  are  hanging  'round. 

But  I'll  tell  you  honest  true, 
He  sometimes  talks  so  serious  like 

And  in  whispering  tones  to  ma, 
1  can  see  that  they're  worried  a  little  bit, 

But  they  think  I  never  saw. 
It's  my  dad! 

There's  a  fellow  who  works  the  hul  day  through, 

And  he  never  seems  to  care 
So  much  fer  the  things  he  has  to  eat 

Or  the  clothes  he  has  to  wear, 
So  long  as  us  kids  are  all  rigged  out, 

And  he  seems  to  have  such  fun 
When  I'm  all  fixed  up  in  my  brand  new  suit; 

And  he  says:  "Ma,  that's  my  son!" 
It's  my  dad! 

There's  a  fellow  who  almost  eats  you  up, 

And  says  that  you'll  sure  go  bad; 
He  never  did  such  a  thing  as  that, 

And  I'm  sure  he  never  had, 
When  he  was  a  boy,  yet  he  sometimes  forgets. 

And  he  tells  of  some  terrible  prank 
'Till  ma  looks  across  awarning  like, 

Then  he  pulls  up  with  a  yank. 
It's  my  dad! 

There's  a  fellow  who  never  cries  at  all, 

And  he  says  men  never  do; 
And  yet  one  time  my  ma  was  sick, 

And  so  was  Sister  Sue; 
He  swallowed  hard-  and  do  you  know, 

Two  great  big  tears  they  slid 


Clear  down  his  cheeks,  I  saw  it,  too; 
But  he  don't  think  I  did. 
It's  my  dad! 

There's  a  fellow  you  never  read  about, 

In  poetry  or  in  song; 
Dad  says  a  man  don't  have  no  time 

For  love  as  he  works  along. 
He  says  it's  only  for  foolish  folks, 

Without  no  aim  or  draw 
In  life.   He  likes  it  though;  and  besides,  he  cheats, 
'Cause  I  saw  him  kissing  ma. 
It's  my  dad! 


MY  WEALTH 


There 's  something  in  this  world  of  ours, 

That  money  cannot  buy. 
You  cannot  buy  the  sunlight  and  the  flowers 

That  shine  and  grow  within  the  grassy  dell — 
You  cannot  buy  the  lights  that  glow  upon  the 
hill  that  towers 

Above  the  rushing  streams,  e'er  twilight's  fell. 

You  cannot  buy  the  happiness  of  boys  and  girls  in 
June, 

When  all  the  world  is  wrapped  in  romance  spell; 
Yrou  cannot  buy  the  silver  beams  that  glitter  from 
the  moon, 

And  add  their  kindly  light  to  youth  and  love. 
Yrour  worldly  wealth  all  fades,  alas,  too  soon, 
When  placed  beside  a  greater  thing — called  love. 

You  cannot  buy  the  happy  songs  of  children  as  they 
play. 

You  cannot  buy  the  love  and  tender  smile, 
Of  she  who  walked  with  you  that  golden  day — 

And  Gk>d  has  given  to  man  no  greater  prize, 
A  tribute  sweet  for  which  no  gold  can  pay — 

Than  the  love  and  dream  in  happy  girlhood  eyes. 


WHERE  BEAUTY  DWELLS 


Bob  Service  wrote  of  the  great  outdoors. 

And  a  stillness  that  thrills  and  thrills, 
And  Poe  of  the  sea,  where  the  great  surf  roars\ 

And  the  kingdom  that  Annabel  fills. 
Lord  Byron  sighed  for  his  native  land 

When  the  ho  or  had  come  to  leave, 
And  Tom  Moore  told  of  his  island  grand? 

And  its  sorrow  that  made  him  grieve. 

Kipling  still  loves  his  Burma  girl, 

And  her  little  cap  of  green. 
And  Foley  writes  of  the  stately  whirl 

Of  the  grain  and  Dakota 's  sheen; 
Riley  told  of  the  Hoosier  state, 

And  he  sang  of  the  children's  play; 
And  all  of  them  dreamed  of  their  home  land  great. 

That  fashioned  their  glorious  day. 

So  I'll  sing  you  a  song  of  a  land  I  know, 

With  its  valleys  and  canons  deep, 
And  myriad  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Where  the  roaring  cataracts  leap  ; 
The  sun  looks  down  with  a  friendly  smile 

On  the  Rockies  great  divide, 
While  a  radiance  glittering  all  the  while, 

Drapes  over  the  mountain's  side. 

The  flowers  just  sweetly  droop  their  heads 

'Neath  the  spell  of  the  moonlight  glow, 
As  the  winds  touch  softly  their  mountain  beds, 

While  the  river  sings  below. 
I  can  sing  of  your  beauty  in  starlit  night; 

I  can  sing  of  your  charms  by  day; 
T  can  tell  of  your  moody  peaks  of  might, 

Where  nature  seems  to  play. 


If  ever  I  wander  on  again, 

And  bask  'neath  other  skies, 
I'll  sing  of  Colorado's  plain, 

Where  its  monntain  peaks  arise; 
And  I  know  as  I  write  this  little  song, 

And  fashion  its  homely  air, 
I'll  dream  again  as  I  drift  along, 

Of  a  flower  that's  blooming  there. 


I  LOVE  YOU! 


When  the  stars  seem  to  fade  from  the  Heavens, 

And  the  dreamy  old  moon  slinks  from  sight; 
When  fate  has  the  cards  stacked  against  you, 

And  you're  beaten  and  bruised  in  the  fight- 
It  is  then  that  a  smile  is  the  sweetest; 

It  is  then  a  caress  is  more  true; 
When  eyes  with  a  tender  meaning, 

Just  say  that  I  love  you. 

When  once  more  you  have  put  on  the  armor, 

And  entered  the  fight  with  a  will, 
And  you  feel  that  you're  almost  wavering 

As  you  start  up  the  long,  weary  hill; 
It  isn't  just  what  she  says  thai  counts, 

Or  the  things  that  she  helps  you  do; 
It's  those  eyes  with  a  tender  meaning, 

That  say  that  I  love  you. 

And  then  when  you've  reached  the  mighty  peak, 

And  stand  on  the  top  of  the  world, 
And  those  who  have  fought  you  change  their  course 

When  the  smoke  of  victory's  curled — 
Pray  don't  forget  in  the  flattering  throng — 

And  exchange  the  old  for  new; 
Just  remember  the  eyes  with  the  tender  smile — ■ 

That  say  that  I  love  you. 


ALX«  in  the  same  boat 


Somebody  said  when  things  go  wrong 

"It  isn't  the  town,  it's  you!" 
He  had  the  key  that  unlocks  the  door 

To  the  treasure  stores,  it's  true. 
We  cannot  all  be  business  men, 

Nor  bankers,  or  yet,  clerks. 
This  world  has  room  for  everyone, 

Who  shucks  his  coat  and  works. 

The  banker  has  his  niche  to  fill, 

And  you'll  find  he  treats  you  right, 
If  you  '11  buckle  on  your  armor, 

And  show  you're  in  the  fight. 
The  grocer  has  the  self-same  views, 

About  this  life,  as  you; 
He  works  and  worries  just  the  same, 

And  has  his  hardships,  too. 

The  clothier,  with  his  stock  of  goods, 

Just  fits  you  out  in  style, 
But  he  has  your  self-same  troubles, 

Behind  his  friendly  smile. 
The  dentist  hurts  you,  did  you  sayT 

Of  course,  it  makes  you  sore, 
But  if  it  wasn't  for  this  dentist  boy, 

Your  tooth  would  hurt  you  more. 

The  doctor  is  a  happy  man, 

With  whom  sorrow  will  not  mix ; 
He  rolls  from  bed  at  any  hour, 

To  treat  you  when  you're  sick. 
His  day  book's  always  plastered  up, 

With  names,  like  yours  and  mine; 
Sometimes  he  doesn't  get  his  pay, 

From  thee,  and  also  thine. 


The  lumber  man  just  figures  bills — 

That's  what  some  people  say. 
And  yet,  you  know,  it's  awful  nice, 

On  a  cold  and  stormy  day, 
When  he's  wondering  'bout  that  note  of  yours, 

And  the  interest  he's  not  seen — 
To  sit  beside  your  own  home  fire, 

As  the  wind  is  blowing  mean. 

We  laboring  men  are  out  of  luck; 

We  have  to  work  like  sin. 
And  sometimes  we  feel  sort  of  blue, 

When  we  're  trying  hard  to  win- 
But  in  these  stirring  times  of  ours, 

Remember  this,  by  heck! 
Our  boss  is  also  sweating, 

To  meet  our  weekly  check. 

The  world  could  never  do  without 

The  man  behind  the  plow, 
The  butcher  or  the  restaurant  man, 

Who  hashes  up  the  chow. 
In  fact,  it  couldn 't  get  along, 

Without  a  chap  like  me, 
And  you,  and  all  the  other  folks — 

With  me  you  must  agree. 

So  let's  not  knock  the  work  of  those, 

Wlio  join  the  Rotary  club, 
The  Lions,  or  the  Civic  men; 

They  form  a  mighty  hub 
For  this  world's  wheel  of  progress. 

Let's  boost  instead  of  slam] — 
There's  nothing  wrong  with  this  old  world — 

And  I'm  glad  I'm  what  I  am. 


ARMISTICE  THOUGHTS 


On  Flanders'  field  where  poppies  blow, 

In  the  land  that  seems  only  a  dream, 
I  see  again  by  the  crosses  row 

The  qniet  starlight  gleam 
And  I  think  of  the  boys,  in  their  lonely  grave, 

A  price  of  their  country's  call, 
Far,  far  from  the  land  they  died  to  save — 

Where  strangers  weaved  their  pall. 

And  I  wonder,  if  e  'er,  in  the  other  world, 

They  look  down  on  this  land  of  ours, 
And  guard  us  again,  when  storm  cloud's  whirled 

Their  threats,  in  the  darkening  showers! 
Do  they  know  we  are  trying  to  follow  the  plan 

They  gave  their  all  to  launch? 
Do  they  know  we  are  battling  all  we  can, 

With  a  courage  true  and  staunch! 

I  pledge  again,  as  I  stand  today, 

To  keep  faith  with  those  who  died, 
A  priceless  tribute  which  each  did  pay 

For  honor,  and  country's  pride. 
I'll  honor  the  flag,  beneath  whose  folds 

They  charged  'mid  the  shot  and  shell — • 
I  '11  honor  their  name  in  the  years  untold, 

And  the  spot  where  my  Buddy  fell. 

Thy  country  is  mine — Oh,  sacred  dead, 

And  I'll  guard  it  through  years  to  be, 
I  pledge  myself  that  the  blood  you  shed 

In  that  land  beyond  the  sea 
Has  not  been  spilled  for  a  traitor's  heart, 

And  I  know  you'll  look  down  and  smile — 
When  you  know  that  your  Buddy  will  do  his  part — 

To  the  last  long,  weary  mile. 


ODE  TO  THE  THOMPSON 


Flow  onward  mighty  river 

In  your  progress  toward  tke  sea 
As  you  pause  for  just  a  moment, 

To  sing  your  song  to  me 
With  a  touch  of  human  sadness 

'Till  you  tell  the  story  old 
Of  love  that  is  eternal 

In  your  mountains  tinged  with  gold. 

I  see  in  your  rippling  waters 

A  face  that  I  loved  long  ago 
And  it  comes  again,  far  from  the  din 

Of  the  city's  mockery  glow. 
A  face  that  knows  the  longings 

That  lingers  'round  my  heart 
And  I  see  in  her  eyes  of  sadness 

The  tears  of  memory  start. 

But  the  world  has  strewn  our  pathway 

With  tires  of  hope  that  burn 
Into  the  soul  of  the  future, 

Into  the  hearts  that  yearn! 
And  I  know  as  you  thunder  onward 

Singing  a  song  that  cheers 
That  the  law  of  compensation 

Will  pay  through  the  coming  years. 

And  I  know  that  the  face  reflected 

In  your  waters,  dazzling  white 
Will  raise  the  veil  of  darkness 

With  love's  eternal  light. 
New  life,  new  hope  is  wafted 

On  the  crest  of  your  mighty  stream, 
And  I  know  that  some  day,  some  how, 

I'll  realize  my  dream. 


MOUNTAIN  DREAMS 


Gaunt  old  mountains,  loafing  'round, 

Sticking  up  their  lofty  peaks; 
Moody,  dreamy,  like  they  stand, 

Towering  o'er  the  winding  creeks. 
When  the  day  is  almost  gone, 

And  I  sit,  and  sort  of  dream, 
Silence  is  so  dreadful  like, 

I  can  almost  hear  it  scream. 

But  I  like  to  be  alone, 

When  the  moonbeams  send  their  slants; 
Making  million  spooky  lights 

'Cross  the  landscape's  vast  expanse. 
For,  'tis  then,  I  sit  and  dream 

Of  a  face  I  used  to  know, 
In  the  days  when  I  was  young — 

In  the  dreamy,  long  ago. 

And  the  silence  of  those  hills, 

Sort  of  tempers  with  my  heart, 
And  the  slanting,  dancing  beams, 

Where  the  hills  and  river  part, 
Takes  me  back  to  other  nights, 

When  another  moonbeam  left — 
Sort  of  drifted  from  my  heart, 

Leaving  me  alone — bereft. 

Kind  of  queer,  in  after  years, 

WThen  you've  bucked  this  game  and  strife, 
How  you  like  to  sit  alone — 

Dreaming  of  your  boyhood  life. 
Gaunt  old  mountains,  you're  my  pal; 

Dancing  moonbeams,  you  just  spur, 
As  you  play  upon  the  river, 

Memories  dear,  and  dreams  of  her. 


I  WONDER! 


There  are  mountains  that  stand  sublimely  gTand, 

There's  a  silvery  river  that  flows 
There's  a  land  that  haunts  me  in  my  dreams, 

There's  a  longing  that  grows  and  grows. 
1  dream  of  the  day  when  I'll  square  accounts, 

And  make  fate  bend  its  knee ; 
And  I'll  stand  again  by  the  river  bend 

While  it  sings  its  song  to  me. 

I  will  hark  to  the  story  it  used  to  tell, 

Of  a  world  that  ne'er  maims  or  kills, 
Wthere  love  and  faith  are  the  guide  for  men 

'Neath  the  shade  of  the  mighty  hills 
Where  the  moody  old  mountains  in  silence  stand, 

While  the  sun,  the  stars  and  the  moon, 
Add  millions  of  sparkling,  colorful  lights, 

To  the  charm  of  the  river's  croon. 

Farewell,  Old  Broadway,  and  aH  your  glow, 

Farewell  to  the  restless  throng; 
After  a  fashion,  you've  treated  me  right, 

You  have  served  me  faithful  and  long 
You  have  fed  and  clothed  me  and  given  me  work; 

I  have  danced  to  your  maddening  joy, 
But  I  long  again  for  the  river's  bend, 

With  the  carefree  heart  of  a  boy. 

As  I  pack  my  grip  and  prepare  to  start 

For  this  old  time  fairy  land, 
I  wonder  if  things  are  just  the  same 

Where  the  mighty  mountains  stand. 
I  wonder  if  dreams  will  be  as  true 

By  the  river's  silvery  flow, 
When  I  know  the  maiden  who  spurred  them  on 

Has  been  lost  to  me  years  ago. 


A  BRAINSTORM 


Last  night  as  I  sat  dreaming, 

The  smoke  from  the  old  pipe  curled; 
My  star  of  hope  was  beaming, 

By  the  plaudits  of  the  world. 
I  saw  the  hand  of  the  future  write 

In  letters  of  gold,  my  name, 
"Which  I  saw,  thru  the  hazy  dream  last  night, 

Inscribed  in  the  Hall  of  Fame. 

And  I  wondered  what  Jane,  of  the  "Golden  Gate, 

Would  say  when  she  heard  the  news ; 
Or  dark-eyed  Betty  of  old  Salt  Lake, 

Wrho  cured  me  of  many  blues. 
W^ould  charming  Nora,  of  Old  New  York 

Just  say  that  ' i  I  told  you  so ! ' ' 
Would  Vera  of  "Chi"  with  tresses  dark, 

Rejoice,  as  I  upward  go  ? 

Then  over  again,  at  fair  Spokane, 

And  down  by  Los  Angeles'  tide, 
I  wondered  what  Susie  or  blue-eyed  Nan, 

Would  think  of  my  skyward  glide. 
Then  my  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  Gopher  state, 

Gyrating  across  the  world, 
To  St.  Paul  town  and  smiling  Kate, 

As  the  smoke  from  the  old  pipe  curled. 

Then  backward  across  the  open  plain 

Of  Dakota's  fields  of  wheat, 
I  see  the  smile  of  Kuth  again, 

Where  the  spires  of  Fargo  greet 
The  West-bound  traveler  on  his  way, 

Where  millions  of  lights  still  shoot 
Their  glow  on  the  hills,  both  night  and  day, 

Where  Eileen  reigns  in  Butte. 


I  smiled  as  I  dreamt  of  the  worlds  of  cheer, 

From  the  corners  of  the  earth — 
I  smiled  as  I  dreamed  of  my  yester-year, 

With  its  touch  of  sorrow  and  mirth 
I  dreamed  of  my  travels  from  East  to  West, 

From  the  North  to  the  snnny  South, 
Wlien  life  was  young — hut  not  at  bestr— 

Then  my  blooming  pipe  went  out. 

I  felt  in  my  pocket,  to  get  a  match, 

And  then  my  fingers  clutched 
A  little  token,  on  memory's  patch, 

That  deeply  my  heart  had  touched. 
It  was  then  I  knew  of  my  little  care, 

For  the  glitter  and  praise  of  the  world, 
As  the  little  red  ribbon  she  wore  in  her  hair, 

The  incense  of  memory  whirled. 

For  the  only  dream  in  the  years  gone  by, 

Or  still  in  the  years  to  come — 
That's  worth  our  while,  is  the  glances  shy 

Of  the  maiden  who  builded  our  home. 
The  bloom  is  as  fair  in  her  cheek  today, 

As  it  was  in  the  days  of  yore. 
She  will  shine  in  my  memory,  bright  alway, 

Until  time  shall  be  no  more. 


LITTLE  BEIG'ET'EYEE 

(Dedicated  to  my  little  daughter,  Eileen.) 


Little  Brighteyes,  I  don't  hardly  know 

What  there  is  about  yon  that  I  see 
That  makes  my  heart  beat  just  a  little  faster, 

And  makes  me  know  yon 're  all  the  world  to  me. 
You're  just  a  little  mite  of  baby  sunshine, 

Yet  when  I  wander  homeward  every  night, 
My  steps  are  just  a  trifle  slow  and  weary, 

Until  my  little  pal  hoves  into  sight. 

She  does  not  always  let  me  read  my  paper, 

When  I'm  just  craving  for  the  evening  news; 
She  asks  me  forty-seven  kinds  of  questions; 

She's  the  surest  cure  I  know  for  business  blues. 
She  almost  drives  her  mother  into  spasms, 

When  she  insists  on  washing  every  dish; 
And  as  a  vent  for  her  pent-up  emotions, 

Ma  says  when  she  grows  up,  she'll  have  her  wish. 

And  then,  a  little  later,  when  the  fairy 

Has  used  her  magic  wand  in  baby  land, 
It  gets  so  still  and  lonely  like  about  us, 

As  mother  stoops  to  kiss  a  tiny  hand. 
'Tis  then  we  sort  of  realize  that  Heaven 

Has  given  us  a  bond,  both  staunch  and  true, 
That  nothing  on  this  earth  can  ever  sever — 

And  little  Brighteyes,  sure  enough,  'tis  you. 


TEE  G.  A.  R;  OF  LOVELANB 


The  stars  and  the  stripes  in  Old  Glory 

Were  waving  triumphant  today, 
Far,  far,  from  the  field  dark  and  gory, 

Far,  far  from  the  battle's  array. 
Beneath  the  old  pennant,  they  cherished, 

Beneath  the  old  flag,  that  they  saved, 
Marched  the  veterans,  whose  ideals  ne'er  perished, 

Since  they  fought,  where  the  old  emblem  waved. 

And  we  thought,  as  we  saw  them  bending, 

The  veterans  of  Sixty-one, 
'Neath  the  weight  of  the  years  all- ending, 

With  their  deeds  so  nobly  done, 
How  we  praise  the  work,  of  the  younger  men. 

Who  carry  the  torch  today, 
And  almost  forget  the  noisy  din 

Of  the  years  so  far  away. 

Oh,  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean, 

Your  glory  we  owe  to  these  boys, 
Whose  love  and  untiring  devotion 

In  the  face  of  the  battle's  noise, 
Way  back  in  the  years  of  long  ago, 

Said,  yes,  to  their  country's  call, 
And  builded  a  freedom  with  victory's  glow — 

Where  God  rules  over  all. 

Here 's  to  you,  boys,  with  the  silvered  hair, 

And  the  flag  you  fought  to  save; 
You  gave  to  God  your  kindly  share, 

When  you  freed  the  weeping  slave. 
You  gave  to  me,  and  to  those  to  come, 

To  the  world,  a  kindlier  glow — 
We'll  miss  you,  boys,  in  the  passing  years, 

When  the  time  has  come  to  go. 


COLORADO'S  COLUMBINE 


(Our  State  Flower) 
There's  a  flower  grows  where  the  night  wind  blows, 

On  the  crest,  at  the  top  of  the  world, 
In  crevice  and  glen,  from  the  haunts  of  men, 

Yv7here  the  god  of  nature's  hurled 
The  rock  and  the  earth  in  crazy  slants, 

Just  to  catch  the  clinging  vine 
On  the  colorful  slopes  of  this  vast  expanse — 

Colorado's  own  Columbine. 

It  grows  in  the  glen,  by  the  side  of  the  trail, 

A  feast  for  the  travelers'  eyes, 
And  it  lends  its  glow  to  the  clouds  that  sail, 

A  caress  to  our  western  skies. 
It  has  placed  its  brand  on  our  state  house  grand, 

And  it  gives  to  the  world  a  sign — 
Just  a  hint  of  the  beauty  of  nature's  land — 

Colorado's  own  Columbine. 

The  tint  of  this  flower  just  seems  to  blend 

With  the  land  of  this  great  outdoors, 
And  color  lend  to  the  river's  bend, 

Above  where  the  cataract  roars. 
No  matter  where  wandering  feet  may  stray, 

'Round  the  heart  will  always  twine 
A  dream  of  the  land  where  the  flowers  play — 

Colorado's  own  Columbine. 

You  may  dream  of  the  ivy  that  used  to  cling 

O'er  the  door  of  your  childhood  home. 
You  may  sing  of  the  memory  the  roses  bring, 

Whenever  your  thoughts  do  roaml. 
But  those  who  have  seen  the  wondrous  bloom 

Of  this  land,  of  yours  and  mine, 
Have  discovered  the  weaver  at  nature 's  loom — 

Colorado's  own  Columbine. 


MOTHER 

(Dedicated  to  Mrs.  John  McColeman,  my  wife's 
mother  and  a  wonderful  mother  to  me.) 


I  do  not  see  you  as  yon  sit  today, 

Serene  and  calm  and  glorious  in  your  grace. 
I  chose  to  picture  you  as  years  ago 

When  first  I  looked  into  your  loving  face. 
They  say  you're  growing  old — it  isn't  true; 

Your  hair  is  silvered,  but  your  heart  is  young. 
Your  face  no  artist  yet  can  truly  paint, 

Your  praise  the  poets  still  have  left  unsung. 

Oh,  Mother  mine,  they  could  not  picture  you 

The  way  you  looked  to  me  so  long  ago; 
They  do  not  know  you  have  not  changed  a  whit, 

And  that  your  cheek  has  still  the  same  old  glow. 
They  say  that  you  have  changed  in  passing  years; 

Could  they  but  see  you  as  I  saw  last  night, 
When,  your  baby  boyy  now  grown  to  man's  estate, 

Had  lost  a  battle  in  the  world's  hard  fight 

If  tiiey  could*  see  the  tenderness  I  saw 

And  hear  the  soothing  words  so  aptly  given- 
They'd  know  the  sweeping  changes  of  the  age 

Had  changed  you  less  than  angels  up  in  Heaven 
The  same  soft,  eager  eyes  looked  into  mine, 

As  when  you  dressed  a  shattered  toe,  or  burn, 
And  softly  kissed  your  little  baby  boy; 

I  felt  the  same  caress,  the  same  heart's  yearn. 

They  cannot  make  me  believe  }~ou're  growing  old; 

They  cannot  picture  you  and  never  shall, 
Unless  they  paint  you  as  you  really  are — 

To  me,  a  mother,  sweetheart  and  a  pal. 
You  have  not  let  me  grow  away  from  you, 

And  I'll  not  let  them  take  from  me  the  joy; 
You  are  not  growing  old — it  isn'  true — 

You're  still  my  little  mammy — I'm  your  boy. 


A  TREASURE  SPOT 


(Respectfully  inscribed  to  M.  A.  Ellison,  proprietor 
of  the  Halfway  Place  in  the  Big  Thompson  canon, 
Colorado.) 

There's  a  little  bit  of  Heaven 

Mixed  with  the  tinted  sky, 
Where  clouds,  just  pause  to  kiss  the  hills, 

And  blush  with  glances  shy, 
As  they  gaze  down  on  the  river, 

With  its  onward  ceaseless  run, 
And  its  laughing,  rippling  waters 

Touched  with  rays  of  setting  sun. 

There's  a  tiny  little  foot  bridge, 

That  spans  this  mighty  stream, 
Where  romance  treads  unchallenged, 

With  sentiment  supreme. 
This  bridge  was  built  by  one  who  knows 

The  secret  of  the  hills — 
By  one  who's  harked  to  nature's  song 

And  drank  in  nature's  thrills. 

He  can  see  in  the  brooding  silence, 
Of  the  mountain  peaks  at  night, 
The  touch  of  a  Master  painter, 
As  the  moon  rims  into  sight, 
He  can  read  in  the  glow  of  morning, 
In  the  flush  of  the  evening  tide, 
The  story  the  river  whispers, 
From  the  lips  of  its  silvery  tide. 

He's  the  friend  of  the  little  flower 
That  grows  by  his  mountain  home, 

He  knows  the  moods  of  the  birds  that  fly, 
And  the  beasts  that  nightly  roam. 

He  knows  the  favored  little  nooks, 
And  fishing  yarns  he'll  spout — 


But  lie  knows  just  where  to  cast  his  fly 
For  the  cautious  Rainbow  trout 

As  fresh  from  the  city's  seething  mass 

On  this  little  bridge  I  stand, 
I  know  that  this  man  has  found  real  life 

In  this  quiet,  peaceful  land. 
As  I  watch  the  water  rippling, 

And  I  see  the  fish  at  play, 
I  know  that  God  is  mighty  nigh, 

And  abides  in  the  hills  for  aye. 


SHUT  YOUR  EYES 


If  girlie  deigns  to  bob  her  hair, 

And  likewise,  ditto,  skirt 
It's  naught  for  us  to  rave  about 

And  it  shouldn't  really  hurt 
Because  if  girlie's  going  south 

And  we  are  really  wise 
We'll  turn  our  face  directly  north 

And  also  close  our  eyes. 

There  is  no  law  against  the  girl 

A  cutting  off  her  locks, 
There  is  no  law  preventing  her 

From  trimming  off  her  frocks 
There  is  no  law  to  govern 

The  style  and  color  hose 
And  there  is  no  law  to  make  us  stare 

Wherever  girlie  goes. 

So  why  is  all  this  raving 

And  why  are  all  these  shouts 
The  simplest  thing  for  man  to  do 

When  ever  he  has  doubts 
About  the  girlie's  wisdom 

For  giving  style  some  spice — 
Jest  close  yer  eyes — and  yet  by  heck, 

We  all  admit  she's  nice. 


ALL  THAT  1  WAMT 


I'd  like  to  go  back  to  home,  sweet  home, 

Wrote  the  lad  to  his  lassie  true, 
But  he  did  not  see,  or  he  did  not  know 

That  home  was  her  eyes  of  blue, 
And  wherever  they  shine d  in  the  wide,  wide  world 
Would  be  home  to  those  who  knew. 

But  I,  who  have  traversed  the  wider  sphere, 

Can  see,  in  two  eyes  of  brown, 
A  call  of  love,  and  faith  and  hope 

In  desert  waste  or  town; 
With  her  winning  smile,  on  a  lonely  isle, 

She  could  turn  to  smiles,  the  frown. 

And  wherever  my  fitful  fancy  leads, 

Or  my  wandering  feet  may  stray, 
There's  always  a  face  that  smooths  my  path 

And  eyes  that  seem  to  say: 
Gto  wandering  pilgrim  where  you  will, 

I  am  yours  both  night  and  day. 

I  am  yours  in  the  lonely  mountain  pass; 

I  am  yours  on  the  city  street; 
1  am  yours  in  the  battle,  the  grim  of  life, 

Regardless  of  those  I  meet! 
Does  your  heart  give  answer,  oh,  wandering  one, 

In  the  course  of  its  worldly  beat? 

Yes,  here  is  the  answer  of  one  who  knows 

No  home  but  the  tinted  skies; 
Yet  knows  that  a  home  would  be  anywhere 

'Neath  the  spell  of  those  wonderous  eyes; 
In  the  city's  crowded,  bustling  din 

Or  out  where  the  mountains  rise.  , 


Others  may  dream  of  a  gilded  home 
And  talk  of  eyes  of  blue, 


Or  sing  a  song  of  a  maiden  fair; 

With  a  heart,  of  course,  that's  true; 
Bur  give  to  me  those  eyes  of  brown — 

For  all  that  I  want  is  you. 


OUR  OWN 


The  moon  never  beams 

Without  bringing  me  dreams 

Wrote  Poe  of  his  Annabel  Lee 
And  Kipling  still  sighs 

For  those  wonderful  eyes 

Where  the  temple  bells  peal  by  the 

Bur  uiese  are  the  cast 

Of  the  dead  buried  past 
And  sorrow  for  days  that  are  gone 

So  I'll  sing  of  the  time 
When  youth  in  its  prime 

Is  dreaming  on  and  on. 

By  the  twilight  glow 

On  the  Thompson  flow 
The  stars  look  kindly  down 

And  the  man  in  the  moon 
Hears  the  old,  old  croon 

Of  the  youth  of  Loveland  town. 

Kipling  may  have  his  Burma  girl 

Who  waits  by  the  lazy  sea 
And  the  Poe  of  old 

May  treasure  the  gold 
In  the  heart  of  his  Annabel  Lee 

But  give  me  the  smiles 
And  the  winning  wiles 

Of  the  girl  that  dreams  of  me. 


OLD  L.  H.  S. 


(Inscribed  to  Loveland,  Colo.,  High  School.) 

Whenever  you  see  old  "L.  HS." 

In  letters  of  shiny  black, 
Traced  on  a  cherry  pennant  gay, 

It  sort  of  takes  you  back 
To  the  olden  days  when  you  followed  that  flag 

On  the  victory  field  at  will, 
And  age  doesn't  seem  to  make  you  lag 
For  you  follow  the  old  rag  still. 

"L"  is  for  love  of  the  old  home  school, 

The  treasure  of  youthful  dreams; 
"H"  for  the  hope  and  kindly  rays 

That  has  followed  along  life's  streams; 
"S"  for  the  soul  that  was  builded  well 

In  the  heart  of  that  old  time  room, 
Where  only  the  brightness  of  life  survived, 

With  none  of  its  sordid  gloom. 

The  old  time  building  has  given  way 

To  a  modern  city  school; 
'Tis  the  way  with  life,  as  we  travel  on 

We  live  by  the  same  old  rule — 
Each  must  fill  his  proper  niche, 

And  battle  with  all  his  might, 
Then  step  aside  in  the  passing  years 

For  youth  to  take  up  the  fight. 

But  time  and  age  has  not  dimmed  our  love 

For  that  same  old  pennant  gay. 
With  its  letters  of  black  on  a  cherry  field; 

And  we  follow  again  today, 
As  the  younger  lads  dash  down  the  line, 

And  take  it  across  the  goal; 
We  give  three  cheers  for  the  old  home  school— 

With  a  memory,  a  heart  and  a  soul. 


BABY  OF  MINE 


Two  little  eyes  of  baby  blue, 

Two  little  dimples  fair, 
Two  little  lips  and  a  smile  or  two, 

And  a  curl  of  golden  hair. 
This  do  I  see  as  I  sit  alone 

And  dream  of  the  days  gone  by, 

Ere  our  babies  left  us,  one  by  one, 

And  it  causes  my  heart  a  sigh. 

I've  .grown  old  with  the  fleeting  years, 

But  my  heart  tonight  is  young, 
As  I  brush  aside  the  baby  tears, 

For  the  threads  of  memory's  clung 
To  a  heart  that  lives  in  the  realm  of  dreams, 

Where  the  voice  of  childhood's  call, 
And  a  baby's  face,  of  Heavenly  beams, 

With  God  rules  over  all. 

Two  little  shoes  are  tucked  away, 

Along  with  the  baby  toys, 
And  after  the  struggle  and  strife  today, 

When  all  of  the  earthly  joys 
Seem  drifted  and  gone  from  an  aching  heart, 

I  take  from  their  hiding  place 
The  things  that  are  ever  of  me  a  part, 

And  I  dream  of  my  baby's  face. 

Did  I  hear  a  rap  on  the  parlor  door, 

Or  has  fancy  played  its  part, 
On  the  same  old  dream,  dreamt  o'er  and  o'er, 

In  the  longings  of  my  heart  ? 
I  rise  to  greet  a  grown-up  lass, 

And  my  heart  has  ceased  to  pain — 
For  God  is  kind  in  years  that  pass, 

And  baby  is  home  again. 


ROMANCE  LAND- 


The  same  old  moon  is  beaming, 

In  the  same  soft, .friendly  sky, 
And  the  same  old  stars  are  shining' 

Like  the  love  light,  in.  her  eye ; 
And  the  years  roll  ever  onward. 

With  a  steady  forward  whirl, 
But  they  can't  blot  out  the  memory* 

Of  a  little  bine  eyed  girl. 

'Tis  years  since  first  we  wandered 
O'er  the  youthful  path  of  bliss- , 
When  I  told  the  oldrold  story 
To  a  charming  little  miss; 

And  storms  have  strewn  the  pathway* 
With  snows  of  winter's  clime, 

But  springtime's  ever  in  the  soul 
Of  that  old  sweetheart  of  mine., 

Down  the  silent,  winding  valley, 

In  the  shades  of  fairy  glen,, 
There  is  just  enough  of  sunlight, 

Where  the  robin  and  the  wren 
Sing  their  little  springtime  love  song. 

So  we  mortals  understand 
The  world  would  grope  in  darkness 

Were  it  not  for  romance  land. 

We  know  that  we 've  been  crowded 

From  that  little  shady  dale; 
With  the  boys  and  girls  of  yesterday 

We  wander  up  the  trail; 
And  we  leave  this  sacred  bower 

To  more  youthful  eyes  that  shine; 
But  none  will  have  such  splendor 

As  that  old  sweetheart  of  mine. 


THE  OLD  FARM 


You  may  taik  about  the  city, 

With  its  million  lights  aglow; 
You  may  dream  of  trails  that's  prettj", 

Winding  in  the  long  ago ; 
You  may  sing  about  the  mountains, 

And  their  changing  shades  of  lights ; 
You  may  drink  at  nature's  fountains, 

Whisper  love  in  starlit  nights. 
But  I  know  a  homely  little  trail, 

That  winds  through  pastures  green; 
That  sort  of  makes  my  memory  sail, 

To  things  youVe  never  seen. 

There's  a  tumbled  down  old  school  house 

Standing  at  the  turnpike's  end, 
Where  the  swift-winged  little  prairie  grouse 

It 's  living  tokens  send. 
With  its  calling,  calling,  calling, 

To  its  trusty  little  mate; 
Where  the  ivy  vines  in  falling, 

Twine  around  the  old  farm  gate. 
Perhaps  you've  viewed  this  little  scene, 

But  there's  one  thing  that  I  see, 
Embedded  in  the  landscape  green, 

Belongs  alone  to  me. 

Two  lips  that  whispered  sweetly 

' ' My  heart  belongs  to  you;" 
A  checkered  dress  so  neatly, 

Worn  by  a  girl  I  knew. 
Two  big  blue  eyes  a  smiling, 

So  tenderly  in  mine, 
A  manner  so  beguiling, 

In  the  days  of  Old  Lang  Syne, 
Just  enter  in  the  gloaming 
To  lend  earth  and  sky  a  charm — 
And  ever  in  my  roaming, 

Oomes  dreams  of  that  old  farm. 


THE  SCENT  OF  SACrE 


The  old  time  Yankee  loves  the  scent 

Of  the  stately  pines  of  Maine; 
The  Magnolias  of  the  Southland 

.Revives  a  dream  again, 
Of  the  man  from  dear  old  Dixie, 

Who's  longing  to  return 
To  the  buds  and  blooms  of  homeland., 

A  balm  for  hearts  that  yearn, 

The  Golden  Rod  is  nodding7 

On  Minnesota's  field, 
And  the  orange  blossoms  mingle 

On  California's  shield; 
The  "Wild  Rose  casts  its  fragrance 

O'er  North  Dakota's  strand, 
And  the  cactus  grows  in  lonely  beds 

Beside  the  Rio  Grande, 

Send  out  their  yearning  call 
The  flowers  of  every  land  and  clime 
To  the  exiled  son  who  wanders, 

But  there's  one  rules  over  all. 
It  grows  alone  in  the  Westland, 

On  the  vast  expansive  plain, 
And  once  you  drink  its  fragrance. 

It  calls  you  back  again. 

It  isn't  much  for  beauty, 

But  its  scent  just  seems  to  cling 
To  the  heart  of  the  mighty  Westland 

In  the  friendly  hours  of  spring. 
T'is  a  harbinger  of  home  sweet  home, 

As  you  ride  toward  the  setting  sun, 
Where  it  seems  that  the  mighty  landscapes,. 

Are  blended  into  one. 


One  heart,  one  soul,  for  yon  and  me* 

As  we  ride  the  range  of  old, 
And  see  on  the  distant  skyline, 

The  mountain  peaks  of  gold. 
Others  may  have  their  buds  and  flowers^ 

The  dream  of  the  poet's  age, 
But  give  to  me  the  Western  plain. 

And  the  scent  of  its  kindly  sage. 


I  WONDER  WHY 


I  wonder  why  it  is  that  I 

Can't  see  in  others'  smiles 
The  same  sweet  dancing  moonbeams.. 

The  same  sweet,  charming  guiles! 
1  wonder  why  your  words  just  seem 

To  float  upon  the  air; 
And  when  God  made  your  wondrous  eyesr 

He  placed  the  diamonds  there? 

Why  is  it  that  when  roses 

From  hidden  nooks  do  peak, 
Just  seem  to  match  in  radience 

The  glow  upon  your  cheek! 
Why  is  it  when  you  sing  to  me 

The  song  that  others  sing, 
You  bring  to  me  the  sweetest  chimes, 

The  softest  Angelus  ring 

I  wonder  why  its  springtime 

Throughout  the  livelong  year, 
And  the  little  birds  sing  sweeter 

Whenever  you  are  near! 
Why  is  it  that  there's  happiness 

In  everything  you  do! 
I  wonder  if  its  just  because— 

Because  that  I  love  you! 


ENOS  A.  MILLS 


They  carved  for  him  a  granite  grave, 

From  out  the  recesses  of  nature's  wonderland, 

Where  years  ago  the  lining  call  of  lonliness 
Had  whispered  strains  of  hope  to  roving  Indian 

bands 

He  cared  not  for  the  glitter,  or  the  falseness, 
Of  the  artificial  wealth  within  the  world; 
He  understood  the  song  the  river  sang, 
The  bold  defiance  the  mountain  lion  hurled 
A  challenge  to  the  human  flood  to  come, 
As  the  answering  hills  confirming  echoes  rang. 

He  asked  so  little  from  the  world  of  men, 

But  deeply  drank  of  nature's  lasting  charms; 

He  gave  so  much  to  those  who  understand 
The  soothing  lullaby,  the  encircling  arms 

Of  Mountains  reaching  lazily  toward  the  sky; 
Of  canons,  winding  serpent-like  thru  towering 
hills; 

Of  roaring  cataracts  a- thundering  toward  the  sea. 

Yet  pausing  long  enough  to  kisa  the  little  rills 
That  feed  the  parent  streamlet,  while  it  carries  on, 

And  sings  its  song  of  joy  to  you  and  me.  J 

The  ghost  like  peaks  in  silence,  guarded  well, 

For  years,  the  dreams  within  the  hermit  soul 
Of  the  inmate  of  that  lonely  mountain  cabin, 

Until  one  day  this  vision  claimed  its  toll, 
And  worked  upon  the  heart  strings  of  this  man, 

And  looking  far  ahead  into  the  coming  years, 
He  sought  to  share  his  fairy  land  with  men — 

And  build  within  the  vastness  of  this  land  a  pe<| 
To  all  the  other  play  grounds  in  this  favored  land,  I 

Where  towering  mountains  guard  the  entran< 
to  the  glen. 


Unlike  so  many  dreamers  who  have  lost 
Their  battle  for  the  future  of  the  race, 

He  lived  to  see  his  fondest  hopes  fulfilled; 
To  see  the  throngs  from  every  spot  and  place 

Within  the  confines  of  this  mighty  land  of  ours, 
Come  journeying  as  pilgrims  did  of  old; 

Not  seeking  to  pollute  his  land  of  dreams- 
No  fighting,  struggling  mass — just  craving  gold. 

They  builded  well,  who  made  his  resting  place, 
Where  the  moon  will  always  cast  its  kindilest 
beams. 


EDNA  MAY 

(Answering  a  request  for  some  of  our  poems  from 
Edna  May  Harbidge,  age  11,  Loveland,  Colorado.) 

So  you  think  you  like  my  verses,  Edna  May, 

And  you'd  like  to  have  me  send  them  out  your 
way; 

I'm  a  curious  sort  of  chap,  and  I  wonder  what  in- 
clines 

A  charming  little  maiden  to   peruse  my  humble 
lines. 

I  have  wandered  on  through  every  land  and  clime, 

And  smiles  and  tears  are  mingled  with  my  rhyme; 
But,  throughout  the  bygone  years  and  throughout 
the  livelong  day, 
There's   been   love,   and  buds,  and  happiness  a 
blooming  in  my  way. 

And  listen,  little  girlie,  Edna  May, 

Don't  ever  lose  the  sight  of  God's  bright  ray — 
The  clouds  may  rise  at  morn  but  they're  not  for  very 
long — 

If  our  soul  is  full  of  sunshine  and  our  heart  is  full 
of  song. 

I  like  you're  little  sunny  smile,  your  charming,  win- 
ning grace — 
But,  I  know  the  tiny  tear  drop   does  sometimes 
take  its  place; 

But  God  is  very  kind  to  those,  who  wipe  the  tears 
away — 

And  the  angels  smile  in   kindness,   when  you  do 
not  let  them  stay. 

I'm  glad  my  songs  have  cheered  you,  Edna  May, 
And  I'll  always  hope,  and  yes,  I'll  even  pray — 
That  no  matter  what  the  future  years  may  hold  in 

store  for  you, 
You'll  always  face  them  with  a  smile,  with  a  heart 

that's  ever  true. 


When   you   read   my   humble  verse,  that  sadly 
lacks  in  art, 

Just  remember  they  are  written  from  the  longings  in 
the  heart, 

Of  one  who  hasn't  always  seen  the  gayest  things 
in  life — 

But  who  always  comes  up  smiling  after  every  bloody 
strife- 


LIFE 


Life  is  a  wonderful  ballad  and  song, 

A  mixture  of  smiles  and  tears; 
Sometimes  the  road  seems  weary  and  long, 

As  the  months  turn  into  years. 
But  always  the  clouds  have  a  silver  tint, 

As  they  sail  in  the  heavens  above — 
For  God,  in  his  wisdom,  has  kindly  sent 

To  the  heart,  a  wondrous  love. 

Love  for  the  wonderful  hills  and  dales; 

Love  for  the  mountain  streams; 
Love  for  the  flowery  little  vales; 

Love  for  the  soft  moon  beams; 
Love  for  the  happy  children's  song; 

Love  for  the  morning  dew; 
Love  for  our  country,  staunch  and  strong- 

And  love,  Sweetheart,  for  you. 

Never  a  tear  has  fallen  in  life 

But  has  had  its  counterpart, 
In  spite  of  the  struggle,  storm  and  strife 

In  the  longings  of  the  heart. 
But  always  the  sun  breaks  thru  the  clouds 

And  sends  its  rays  anew — 
In  spite  of  the  din  and  the  noisy  crowds, 

I  know  of  a  love  that's  true. 


MY  THANKSGIVING 


Borne  folks  may  thank  Thee,  Gracious  Lord, 

For  power  and  fame  and  wealth, 
But  I'm  thankful  I'm  not  with  the  horde 

And  thank  Thee  for  my  health. 
I  thank  Thee  for  the  many  things 

That  Thou  hast  made  me  see 
Amongst  the  common  things  of  life, 

Where  love  just  seems  to  he. 

I'm  thankful  for  my  little  home 

So  humble  yet  so  sweet; 
I'm  thankful  for  the  buds  that  grow 

And  blossom  at  my  feet. 
I'm  thankful  for  a  childish  voice 

That  lisps  a  prayer  each  night 
And  leads  me  through  the  darkening-  shade 

To  God's  Eternal  tight. 

I'm  thankful  that  You  made  me  see 

That  life  is  good  and  kind; 
I'm  thankful  that  I  ne'er  forget 

The  friends  I  left  behind, 
And  as  I  traveled  onward, 

The  sun  did  always  shine — 
I'm  thankful  Lord,  for  all  the  things 

You've  done  for  me  and  mine. 

Although  I  have  no  wealth  to  spend  < 

As  I  travel  on  my  way; 
I'm  thankful  Lord,  that  You  did  send 

A  little  nickering  ray 
Of  sentiment  within  my  soul, 

To  make  my  glad  heart  chime — 
I  thank  Thee,  Gracious  Lord  above 

That  I'm  happy  all  the  time. 


GHLLIE  MINE 


(Dedicated  to  my  little  daughter,  Eutli.) 
I  like  to  sit  and  watch  her  while  she  play?, 

And  sings  her  croooning  lullaby  to  "Sue," 
Her  much  besmeared  and  grimy  faded  doll, 

And  whisper  to  it  stories,  old,  yet  new; 
And  as  1  gaze  into  her  baby  eyes 

And  realize  she's  grown  from  child  to  maid, 
She  takes  me  back  to  days  'neath  other  skies— 

To  Jesamine  and  buds  and  kindly  shade. 

Back  to  the  time  when  first  I  trudged  to  school 

Beside  a  little  gingham  aproned  lass, 
Who  used  to  look  to  me  to  guide  her  right, 

Yet  always  led  me  in  the  school  room  class. 
And  when  I  see  her  now  in  riper  years 

Just  cuddling  to  her  heart  this  baby  mine, 
I  dread  the  day,  as  surely  come  it  must, 

When  we  will  lose  this  litttle  clinging  vine, 

I  or  God  has  builded  in  the  hearts  of  men, 

And  in  the  soul  of  womanhood,  the  flame 
Reflected  in  the  eyes  of  baby  mine 

As  she  whispers  to  her  doll  in  mother's  name. 
I  dread  the  day  her  Charming  Prince  shall  come 

And  steal  her  heart  away  as  years  ago 
I  took  her  little  mother  from  her  home: 

And  yet  I  realize  'tis  better  so- 

But  come  into  my  arms,  oh,  girlie  mine, 

Until  I  tell  you  fairy  tales  of  old; 
Your  mother,  dear,  has  dreamed  so  many  dreams, 

About  your  future  years  that's  yet  untold. 
I  know  you're  going  to  dwell  within  the  scope 

Of  dreamland  builded  with  our  smile  and  tear, 
And  yet  I  hate  to  see  you  growing  up, 

For  God,  alone,  knows  how  we'll  miss  you,  dear. 


BLOOM  OF  KILDARE 


I  know  a  house,  on  an  old  side  street, 

That  is  half-way  tumbled  down; 
On  the  borderland  where  races  meet, 

In  the  nation's  largest  town. 
It  stands  on  the  edge  of  an  old  spite  lane? 

Where  the  racial  fends  and  bands 
First  flicker,  then  burst  to  flame  again, 

Bred,  in  a  foreign  land. 

It  was  there  that  I  spent  my  boyhood  days. 

And  I  entered  with  vim  in  the  fight; 
Upholding  the  customs  and  various  ways 

Of  our  gang,  which  we  believed  was  right. 
How  often  I've  drempt,  in  the  years  long  past. 

Of  that  silly  old  spite  lane: 
And  somehow  or  other,  my  dream  would  last 

'Til  I  wished  I  was  there  again. 

There  was  Ikey  from  over  in  Palestine, 

And  Tony  from  Italy  fair; 
And  Herman,  that  smacked  of  the  River  Rhine  ; 

Arid  My  Blossom  of  old  Kildare, 
There  were  factions,  and  ructions  and  rows  galore, 

In  those  days  of  storm  and  strife; 
But  the  years  have  softened  their  hearts — and  more 

They  have  won  in  the  battle  of  life. 

And  one,  in  the  height  of  success,  still  dreams 

Of  the  soft  Italian  skies ; 
And  one  of  the  Rhine  and  Palestine, 

And  the  old  time  racial  ties. 
All  have  been  placed  in  the  melting  pot 

Of  Columbia,  the  land  of  the  free, 
And  yet,  as  they  travel  their  daily  lot, 

Their  childhood's  home  they  see. 


The  dream  of  Italy 's  land  of  flowers 

Comes  back  to  that  boy  again; 
And  Ikey  and  Herman  have  dreamy  hours 

Of  that  silly  old  spite  lane. 
And  all  dream  of  this  land  so  free, 

That  gave  them  its  kindly  share 
And  one  dreams  now: — it  occurs  to  me, 

Of  the  blossom  of  Old  Kildare. 


THE  RED  RIBBON 


Just  a  slip  of  a  girl  with  saucy  look, 

A  little  red  ribbon  I  swiped  one  day, 
A  little  red  school  house  that  stood  by  the  brook, 

A  relic  of  days  that  have  faded  away; 
I  wonder  how  kids  in  these  modem  days 

Can  have  any  fun,  like  we  used  to  do, 
But  I  guess  that  no  matter  how  modern  they  get, 

They  play  the  old  story,  just  worked  over  new. 

The  changing  of  years  has  wiped  from  that  spot, 

The  tumbled  down  building  we  used  for  a  school  • 
There  rose  in  its  stead  a  three-story  brick, 

With  all  the  new  trimmings  of  mjodern  rule; 
Even  the  brook  as  it  rambles  along, 

Don't  sing  half  as  sweet  as  it  used  to  for  me, 
And  even  that  ribbon  has  faded  a  bit, 

But  there  still  is  a  vision  in  dreaming  I  see. 

Eyes  that  have  held  me  throughout  the  years, 

In  the  mystic  maze  of  their  magic  spell; 
Cheeks  with  the  bloom  of  the  early  morn, 

And  lips  of  which  no  poet  can  tell. 
I  dare  not  tell  you  the  shade  of  her  eyes, 

Nor  the  marvelous  beauty  of  her  tangled  hair, 
Lest  my  own  little  wife  should  discover  the  thief, 

Of  the  little  red  ribbon  that  she  used  to  wear. 


"VISIONS  OF  LIFE 


1  know  as  the  days  roll  onward, 

And  I  fashion  my  string  of  years*, 
That  this  world  is  growing  better, 

In  spite  of  the  many  tears 
That  I  shed,  as  I  trailed  the  highway — - 

While  I  trudged  my  weary  route. 
But  I  of  times  missed  the  byway, 

Where  the  streams  of  sunshine  spout. 

As  I  search  my  heart  for  the  answer 

Of  all  the  earthly  woe, 
I  know  that  the  truant  dancer 

Must  pay  for  his  passing  show. 
If  I  have  failed  in  my  rambles, 

The  things  of  joy  to  see, 
In  the  midst  of  the  world's  wild  shambles 

The  fault  lies  all  with  me- 

There 's  laughter  in  every  ripple, 

That  scurries  along  the  stream; 
There's  joy  in  each  glorious  tripple 

As  we  drink  in  the  moonlight  beam; 
There 's  a  song  on  the  wings  of  morning 

A  caress  in  the  shades  of  night, 
A  touch  of  a  soul's  adorning, 

By  the  promise  in  God's  own  light. 

There's  music  in  baby's  laughter, 

And  a  glow  on  the  maiden's  cheek, 
And  peace  for  those  who  after 

A  sorrow,  will  only  seek 
The  solace  of  song  and  story, 

In  the  midst  of  nature's  glow, 
Arrayed  in  its  robes  of  glory — 

A  light  in  the  hour  of  woe. 


There's  joy  in  youth's  early  hours; 

There's  peace  in  the  autumn  fair; 
There's  a  tint  of  the  rarest  flowers, 

In  the  silver  of  mother's  hair. 
She  has  woven  our  life  in  beauty, 

As  the  blossoms  that  spring  from  the  sod. 
She  has  traced  our  path  of  duty, 

Touched  with  a  power  from  God. 


THE  POET 


Some  folks  think  a  poet's  a  chap 

Who  goes  to  the  mighty  hills, 
To  dream,  but  honest  folks,  he's  just  a  yap, 

With  the  same  old  human  thrills 
He  gets  the  same  things  out  of  life, 

As  you,  but  he  writes  it  down. 
He  uses  his  pen  for  a  pruning  knife, 

And  he  trims  right  here  in  town. 

He  works  all  day  in  a  stuffy  room, 

Exactly  the  same  as  you — 
He  tries  to  forget  the  sordid  gloom, 

But  is  sometimes  a  wee  bit  blue. 
Once  in  a  while  he  brushes  a  tear, 

That  trickles  down,  as  he  writes — 
Then  someone  comes  with  a  word  of  cheer. 

And  it  fashions  his  glorious  nights. 

The  world  is  a  fine  old  place  to  live, 

For  him,  as  well  as  for  you — 
If  you're  always  willing,  your  heart  to  give 

To  the  things  that  are  good  and  true- 
And  life  was  made  for  us  to  use, 

In  the  course  of  its  daily  run — 
Thrice  blessed  is  he,  who's  able  to  fuse 

The  smiles  and  tears  in  one. 


THE  FAIRY  DIPPER 


Did  you  ever  hear  the  story 

Of  the  clipper  in  the  sky, 
That 's  made  of  stars  that  shine  so  bright 

Above  the  world  so  high? 
One  time  when  fairies  used  to  dwell 

Upon  this  world  of  ours, 
A  little  Fairy  Princess  fair 

Just  grew  amongst  the  flowers, 

A  bad  old  king  that  ruled  the  world, 

Had  asked  her  for  to  wed, 
But  she  loved  a  dark-eyed  stately  Prince, 

So  she  shook  her  pretty  head. 
This  made  the  old  king  shake  with  rage, 

And  for  many  weary  hours 
He  tortured  both  the  dark-eyed  Prince 

And  the  little  Maid  of  Flowers, 

And  then,  at  last  an  Angel  song 

Came  drifting  from  above. 
And  carried  both  the  Prince  and  Maid 

Into  the  realm  of  love. 
And  as  they  left  this  cruel  old  earth, 

And  sailed  high  o  'er  the  land, 
The  Fairy  Wind  nipped  all  the  flowers 

And  made  the  desert  sand. 

The  haughty  king  was  buried  deep, 

Beneath  the  desert  hot; 
But  all  the  little  flowers  were  dead, 

Save  one  forget-me-not. 
And  wjien  the  little  Fairy  Maid, 

From  her  home  up  in  the  sky, 
Saw  this  one  lonely  little  flower, 

She  just  began  to  cry. 

And  when  her  tear-drops  reached  the  earth, 
Imagine  her  surprise, 


When  a  million  little  flowers  sprang, 
And  looked  np  toward  the  skies. 

So  she  placed  the  starry  dipper  there 
And  filled  it  with  her  tears, 

To  give  the  little  flowers  a  drink 
Throughout  the  passing  years. 


A  NINETY  NINEE 

Inscribed  to  W.  H.  Wright,  Nav/spaper 
Man,  Poet  and  Good  Scout 


He  has  a  bit  of  poetry 

A  tugging  at  his  soul, 
And  a  heart,  just  full  of  music 

Reaching  toward  a  future  goal. 
When  a  fellow's  up  against  it, 

And  is  sort  of  down  and  out, 
He'd  dig  his  last  old  penny, 

Just  to  make  the  sunshine  spout. 

He  may  not  rank  one  hundred, 

In  figuring  life's  percent; 
But  a  better  ninety  niner 

The  Lord  has  never  sent; 
To  slap  a  fellow  on  the  back, 

When  you're  feeling  kind  of  blue. 
He's  just  the  kind  of  guy  that  counts, 

When  things  ain't  breaking  true. 

He  has  a  heap  of  vision, 

And  he  knows  the  game  of  life. 
He  has  heard  the  song  of  nature 

When  the  world  with  spring  is  rife. 
He  has  tasted  of  the  sunshine, 

And  the  mighty  westland's  song — 
Where  time  and  fame  will  scroll  his  name 

Where  the  best  of  them  Tbelong. 


CANNING  TIME 


Bid  you  ever  pop  home,  from  a  busy  day  's  work, 

Then  stand  in  the  doorway  appalled, 
And  figure,  that  some  one  has  ruined  your  home 
Or  else,  that  the  drayman  has  hauled 

A  carload,  of  something  you  can't  figure  out 
And  placed  it  right  square  in  the  room. 

If  you  have,  it  is  surely  a  one  sided  bet, 
That  the  tarnal  ol'  can  season's  come. 

We  ain't,  but  we  know  who  has! 

Have  you  ever  climed  up  in  the  crooked  ol'  tree, 

And  chased  the  elusive  ol'  plums, 
And  then  have  a  branch  a-break  right  in  two, 

While  ol'  mother  earth,  up  she  comes, 
To  meet  you  half  way,  with  a  sickening  thud 

WJhile  the  blood,  from  your  system  does  spurt, 
Where  branches  have  scratched  you,  an'  wifey  says: 

Oh,  Honey  Dear,  are  you  hurt! 
We  a  in 't,  but  we  know  who  ha? ! 

Have  you  ever  lugged  parafine,  jar  tops,  an'  caps, 

And  worked  till  your  body  was  sore, 
And  spent  a  week's  wages,  for  sugar  and  such 

With  your  wifey  just  liollerin'  for  more 
While  you  silently  cursed  the  first  maddening  Eve 

Who  invented  this  time  of  the  year 
While  you  washed  all  the  dishes  and  'tended  the  kids 

And  wifey,  jest  callin'  you  dear? 
We  ain't,  but  we  know  who  has! 

Have  you  ever  sat  down  when  the  winter  time  comes 

And  the  snow  is  a  blowin'  outside 
While  friend  wife  cooks  chicken,  an'  all  o'  this  stuff 

And  your  heart  it  just  bubbles  with  pride, 
As  you  pull  off  the  top,  o'  the  jelly  and  jam 

And  tell  how  it  surely  pays, 
To  can  and  prepare,  fer  old  winter  time, 

While  ma  smiles,  'cause  she  knows  your  ways  1 
We  ain't,  but  we  know  who  has! 


THE  DAYS  OF  '49 

(Inspired  by  the  Loveland  Elks'  celebration  com- 
memorating the  days  of  '49,  Thursday,  November 
16,  1922.) 

Bough,  uncouth,  he  staggered  through  the  snow; 

The  hills  had  yielded  well,  their  golden  dust; 
He  swore  a  day  would  come  when  he  would  know, 

Again  the  glow  of  wealth — and  come  it  must. 
Six  times  he  made  his  fortune  from  the  hills, 

And  filled  his  poke,  and  started  down  the  trail — 
And  as  he  passed  the  little  babbling  rills, 

He  dreamed  of  her,  who  said  he  would  not  fail. 


Six  times  he  landed  in  the  hell  below 

Amid  the  dance  hall  blare,  and  song  and  jest — 
Six  times  he  started  once  again  to  go 

Back  o'er  the  lonely  trail,  the  same  old  quest. 
For  wine  and  women,  song  and  boisterous  laughter- 

The  faro-bank,  roulette  and  black  jack  game, 
Had  robbed  him  of  his  boyhood  dream — and  after 

His  dust  was  gone,  he'd  hit  the  road  again. 


For  dreams  of  her  would  rise  amid  the  lure, 

Of  all  the  filth  and  rottenness  of  life, 
Depicted  in  the  den  of  vice — and  sure 

He  would  not  fail  again,  amid  the  strife. 
He 'd  take  his  grubstake,  and  thru  lonely  hours, 

He'd  toil  and  grub  amidst  the  wealth  of  earth — 
And  fail  again,  because  of  luring  powers, 

And  j  et,  you  know,  he  gave  this  land  a  birth. 


Twas  thru  his  failures,  as  he  staggered  on, 

That  made  the  West  a  land  for  you  and  me. 
Although  he  died  in  woe,  his  memory's  gone 

Down  through  the  years,  in  him  we  see 
The  man  who  blazed  for  us  the  mighty  trails — 

The  seventh  time  he  enters,  lights  still  shine — 
His  dust  is  gone,  a  shot  rings  out,  he  fails — 

His  tomb  still  marks  the  days  of  '49. 


WINTERS  OF  LIFE 


The  quaking  aspen's  leaves  are  stripped 

Prom  the  Rockies '  jagged-side; 
The  winter's  wind  has  rudely  whipped 

The  green  from  valleys  wide; 
The  melancholy  days  have  come 

For  all,  save  those  who  see 
The  beauteous  tints  of  nature's  dome, 

Just  changed,  for  you  and  me. 

How  dull  would  be  this  life  of  ours, 

If  the  sun  would  always  shine; 
How  frail  would  be  the  woodland  flowers : 

How  drab  the  stately  pine — 
If  the  god  of  nature  did  not  change 

The  mantle  which  they  wear — 
If  high  above  the  mountain  range, 

The  clouds  ne'er  floated  there. 

How  little  would  we  know  of  life, 

If  things  were  always  bright; 
It  is  only  through  the  storms  and  strife. 

Our  souls  are  led  to  light. 
There  never  was  a  budding  flower, 

To  fade  on  winter's  wing, 
But  bloomed  again  in  freshening  shower. 

In  the  early  hours  of  spring. 

There  never  sank  a  soul  so  low, 

In  the  snow  of  winter's  time, 
But  has  the  power  again  to  glow, 

In  God's  own  sunny  clime. 
I  never  knew  a  heart  so  true, 

As  one  that  throbbed  in  woe, 
Then  felt  the  thrill  of  life  anew— 

Because  Grod  made  it  so. 


And  after  all.  the  trials  we  bear. 

Are  sweet  in  later  years; 
Just  like  the  flowers  in  mountain  air, 

They're  purged  and  cleansed  with  tears. 
And  one  comes  from  the  clouds  above 

In  freshening  April  rain — 
And  one  comes  through  the  power  of  love— 
,    That  life  may  bloom  again. 


TO  PIERCE  EG  AN 

Poet  and  Journalist 


With  heart  that  beats  for  you  and  me, 

And  a  friendship,  oh!  so  rare- 
Possessed  of  spirit  and  a  soul 

Like  few  mortals  are; 
Your  book  of  verse,  will  treasured  be— 

I  know  its  golden  heart- 
Treasured  in  its  constancy, 

With  it  I  will  not  part 

— W.  EL  Wright 


FAREWELL,  OH,  RIVER 


Koaring  again  in  the  distance, 

Leaping  through  gorges  steep, 
Laughing  and  crashing  and  splashing, 

Winding  through  canon  deep — : 
Thus,  will  I  hear  and  see  you 

Thus,  will  I  dream  of  the  day 
That  I  spent  by  your  mighty  waters 

In  the  glory  of  nature's  array. 

Oh,  mighty,  majestic  river, 

It  is  hard  to  say  goodbye, 
There  is  something  so  pleasingly  charming, 

There  is  even  a  smile  in  your  sigh 
As  you  plunge  in  your  maddening  fury 

Through  the  hills  with  your  weird  chant, 
Oh  God,  how  I  love  your  music, 

And  I  want  to  stay  here,  but  I  can't. 

The  bright  lights  are  luring  and  calling 

Whispering  me  tales  as  of  old 
And  crowds  are  a-streaming  through  Broadway 

And  Wall  Street  still  fights  for  its  gold; 
The  overhead  trains  tell  the  story 

As  they  rush  with  their  pitiless  song 
Of  the  mastery  of  man  over  nature 

And  again — there's  that  vast  restless  throng. 

Listen,  Oh  wonderful  river 

I'll  tell  you  why  I  must  go; 
It  isn't  the  subway  calling, 

It  isn't  old  Broadway's  glow, 
It  isn't  the  din  and  the  noise  of  men 

That  rush  'neath  the  spires  above, 
It  is  something  God  has  woven  in 

With  a  lonely  heart — it's  love. 


Eyes  more  bright  than  your  starlit  night, 

She  has  lips  more  alluringly  sweet, 
A  charm  more  enticing  than  fairy  land, 

Or  the  glare  of  the  city  street; 
It  isn't  because  I  love  you  less 

And  it  causes  my  heart  a  sigh, 
But  love  is  greater  than  your  caress, 

Farewell,  old  river!  Goodbye! 


BLOSSOMS 


"Tis  a  wonderful  thing  in  this  wonderful  world, 

When  you're  striving  and  struggling  to  win, 
To  have  someone  you  know,  just  pause  as  they  go 

To  drop  you  a  line  now  and  then; 
And  tell  you  the  ring,  in  the  songs  that  you  sing 

Has  cheered  them  along  their  way. 
'Tis  the  kindliest  word  that  man  ever  heard, 

And  'twill  last  in  his  memory  for  aye. 

It  is  easy  enough  when  you've  scaled  up  the  bluff 

And  stand  at  the  top  of  the  mound, 
And  hark  to  the  din  and  the  plaudits  of  men, 

When  the  jewel  of  victory  you've  found; 
But  the  sweetest  of  chimes  just  comes  at  the  times, 

When  you're  feeling  down  hearted  and  blue, 
And  some  kindly  soul  just  watching  your  goal, 

Is  hoping  and  praying  for  you. 

There's  nothing  so  sweet  in  life's  busy  street, 

As  a  friend  with  a  smile  and  a  cheer; 
There's  nothing  so  grand  as  some  kindly  hand, 

Just  pushing  when  victory  is  near. 
'Tis  the  last  weary  mile,  after  hours  of  toil, 

That  wears  on  our  soul  as  we  climb ; 
'Tis  the  hand  of  a  friend  that  always  has  penned, 

A  name  on  the  annals  of  time. 


MY  PUP 


I  wonder  why  it  is  that  ma 

Don't  know  that  you're  the  best, 
Of  all  the  things  there  is, 

When  other  folks,  why  even  pa, 
And  Bill  and  all  the  rest, 

Just  know  that  you  're  the  bestest  pup, 
There  is  in  this  hul  town. 
Ma  talks  about  the  baby's  eyes, 

Why  they're  a  nasty  brown. 

Your  eyes  are  just  as  blue  and  nice ; 

Your  fur  is  soft  as  silk ; 
You  ain't  no  bigger  than  a  minute, 

But  you're  sure  a  hound  for  milk. 
Ma  says  you  ruin  everything, 

And  tear  up  baby's  clothes, 
And  pa,  he  kinda  smiles  and  says: 

Ma 's  right  you  bet  she  knows. 

Ma  says  she's  goin'  ter  kill  that  pup, 

Or  lose  him  some  fine  day, 
An'  some  fine  morn,  when  I  wake  up, 

My  dog '11  be  gone  away. 
I  know  that  she  don't  mean  it  though, 

_  'Oause  one  day  he  got  hurt, 
An'  ma,  she  cried,  when  she  fixed  his  wound. 

And  washed  out  all  the  dirt. 

At  night  when  everything  is  still, 

I  sneak  to  the  back  door, 
And  whistle,  not  so  very  shrill — 

'Cause  I  don't  need  no  more. 
The  pup,  he  comes  a  scramblin'  in, 

An  piles  right  into  bed — 
An'  he  knows  that  I'm  a  Men'  o'  his, 

When  I  pat  his  little  head. 


I  ONCE  KNEW 


I  once  knew  a  dreamer  who  dreamed! 

I  once  knew  a  moonbeam  that  beamed! 
But  the  dreamer  was  bamied,  by  the  millionaires 
grand, 

Because  life  was  not  what  it  seemed. 
The  world  must  have  mlansions  of  gold — 

According  to  axioms  of  old — - 
They're  not  made  of  dreams,  but  practical  gleams 

Of  money,  so  we  are  told. 

I  once  knew  a  star,  from  afar, 

That  gleamed  and  gleamed,  and  gleamed! 
I  once  knew  a  girl  that  dreamed, 

And  dreamed,  and  dreamed,  and  dreamed  ! 
She  was  weighing  her  heart  full  well 

Against  love,  and  gold,  which  they  tell, 
Is  better  than  faith,  yet,  it  seemed 

That  love  had  cast  its  spell. 

I  once  knew  tears,  in  the  years  and  years 

That  Slowed  and  flowed,  and  flowed, 
Prompted  by  fears,  and  fears,  and  fears; 

And  a  love  that  glowed,  and  glowed 
At  last,  came  the  gleams  of  her  lover  wht 
dreamed — 

And  the  little  moonbeam  beamed 
Its  glints  of  light,  in.  that  happy  night— 

And  the  world  is  what  it  seemed 


QUE  CRITIC 


A  friendly  critic  dropped  within 

Our  little  office  den 
And  said.  ' i  I  sort  of  like  your  Kihymes 

But  they  don't  appeal  to  men. 
They're  kind  of  soft  and  slushy — 

Your  sentimental  song — • 
They're  absolutely  mushy, 

To  the  he-man,  big  and  strong." 

We  sort  of  sized  this  fellow  up, 

And  knew  he  was  sincere; 
But  wondered  if  he  half  forgot, 

His  own  sweet,  yesteryear. 
Did  he  ever  feel  the  soft  caress 

Of  mother  years  ago  ! 
Was  he  ever  touched  with  her  distress 

When  he  packed  his  grip  to  go! 

Did  he  ever  walk  in  shady  lanes 

When  flowers  bloomed  in  June! 
Did  he  ever  tell  the  story  old, 

Beneath  the  soft,  pale  moon? 
Did  he  ever  feel  a  baby  hand, 

Just  nestling  into  his? 
Did  he  ever  hear  a  baby  lisp, 

The  greatest  prayer  there  is? 

If  he  did  he'll  sort  of  recollect, 

W-hen  all  is  said,  and  done — 
When  every  task  is  finished — 

When  every  fight  is  won, 
A  great  big  love  and  sentiment, 

Has  traced  his  every  mile — 
And  faith  and  hope  and  love,  is  life — 

The  only  life  worth  while. 


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